


Running in Circles

by Kit



Series: The liberati mageling [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Kink Meme, M/M, Magister Fenris AU, Multi, bad latin meets bad old norse and they have grammatically awkward babies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:31:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 41
Words: 70,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit/pseuds/Kit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Altus, they would call you, if you were not a slave." </p><p>Everyone in Minrathous knows that Fenris is liberati trash. He is also the youngest magister the city has seen in decades, freeing himself and his family from slavery in act of magic that set him up for life and had Denarius spitting in corners. </p><p>He is a somniari. A Dreamer.  And if, sometimes, his dreams show him a strange, lanky idiot of a mage from foreign parts--who is as good at escaping as he is at getting caught--then Fenris can still keep that to himself. At least for now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**_Running in Circles - Prologue_ **

_1\. Altus_

Leto dreamed of cities. 

Not the gilt and spires of Minrathous, that island that stood angry and proud enough to turn the surrounding sea to glass. He dreamed of stone and grasslands and foreign rain, and a rawboned boy with dust-blue robes kilted past his knees and slowing, sticky blood on his back.

He was breathless and mad, grinning as he he stumbled, though Leto could hear no one in pursuit. 

“You’d _think_ —” the runner was talking to himself, words garbled and turn from his mouth, but still clear to Leto in that strange way of dreams—”That they’d be more  _imaginative_.” 

Leto woke. He always did. He had seen that boy run in circles for years. Seen him caught and stripped and confined, only to try again, his brown eyes growing harder and wilder as both he and the dreamer grew, the scars he wore changing with seasons and escape attempts until they mapped his body like any Tevinter slave on the lesser open markets. Leto, breathing hard from another’s efforts and feeling his own unmarked back sting against the cot as the waking world took him back, could only shudder. 

Varania stirred in the next cot, her breathing soft and body in the tense half curl that any slave allowed their bodies, for easier waking. Leto tried not to move.

 _Don’t get caught this time_ , he thought, letting his eyes close and seeing shadows of the running boy as he fled another city, another keep or tower. He did not know when sleep took him again. 

* * *

 Pressure. So much  _pressure._

A body where it shouldn’t be, filled by something that simply  _should not:_ desire and rage and cold power that was filling the house, pressing chill fingers to sleeping bodies and searching— _always_ searching.

Leto was caught in its wake, pulled and streaming—bodiless, voiceless—as the presence ignored locks and doors and walls, the master’s own fire-based protections sputtering and dying all about them.

Leto could sense his master. Not his body--though he knew, somehow, that it was sprawled on one of the long couches he favoured, loose and young and with a human boy under his arm. He sensed the heat of his magic, his mind. The banked heat of cinnamon and sulfur turning slow and dim in the cold.

He tasted deathroot—saw, in an unsettling lurch of double-sight—another’s hands—grinding and stirring and letting three drops of something coat every cup the master would touch. 

Leto imagined the fire going out. What the chill and the greed might take from this house with no one left to guard it. He saw it flicker, felt himself-but-not-himself surge forward to meet it, and tumble into poisoned dreams.

“Wake up,” he said, hearing his voice splinter and change into a thousand other seemings—dream family and lovers and enemies, all part of an unknown dreamscape and speaking Leto's own words. “Something is in the house. You have _no time_.” 

“Who is this?” The master’s voice, slurred and baffled.

“Who…who  _dares_ —?” 

“Someone dared poison you and invade your house,” Leto snapped, his voice not his own. Desperate— _frightened_ —sure that, if they did not all die here, his life would be forfeit if the breech was real.

Leto thought of the pressure he had felt and the taste of the unknown power. He startled to see it rise up before them like ink, sketching a half-known figure in Magister robes.

“Wake,” he whispered, his voice briefly cracking and small and just his own. “My master,  _please_."

* * *

 Castor Aubericus, Magister of the Tevinter Imperium, woke to find a desire demon smiling at him from the foot of the couch, frost already blocking the windows and turning the air hard in his throat.

Its death was a screaming, painful thing, his shock and anger ripping enough heat from the Fade to consume it in a fierce rush, leaving only faint bluish traces behind. Deathroot was a sweet pain in the back of his throat, but was fading.  An elf lay crumpled to one side, fine hair spilling over the floor. He shifted under Castor’s eye, groaning and turning a wary, dark face to his.

Leto. The eyes would have named him even if the rest did not.

Castor watched awareness creep into those eyes, saw them widen and then close in sharp, desperate panic. He flung himself forward, forehead touching the floor.

“I…I do not know how I got here,” he whispered. He did not apologize. His whole body spoke and said there was no point.

Castor sighed. He looked at the demon. Looked back at the child. 

“Tell me, Leto,” he said. “Do you dream?” 

“I…”

“I think you do,” said the magister, slowly. “And I think that you may have saved my life.” 

Leto looked up. A shaking, deliberate breech of protocol. He then looked, without flinching, at the demon; at the runnels of water that dripped down the inside of the windows. 

“Altus, they would call you, if you were not a slave,” Castor mused. “Dreamer. Somniari" He felt a smile twist his mouth.

“I bet you’re not even tired. But I do not need to tell  _you_  that life is unfair.” 

“You are my Master,” the boy murmured, still not looking away. “You do not _need_ to tell me anything.” 

Castor laughed. He was alive. He should have beaten cheek out of this scrap of flesh years ago. And if he had, then perhaps he would be dead now. The cowed, after all, did not dream. There had been no Dreamer in Minrathous for twenty years. Denarius would scream and spit.

“It is good, I think,” Castor said, standing and reaching out to pull Leto to his feet. “That liberati can be apprenticed. Don’t you agree?” 

* * *

_2\. Liberati_

The boy stood before a judge, lips pinched and hands clenched at his sides.

The audience could see how he shook, the small-boned elven slave who met the judge’s eyes but could not keep still. He shifted from foot to foot; canted his head, his body leaning slightly toward his master’s taller, still form. Even here. Even at this time. 

“Magister Aubericus. This is…an unusual request.”  Someone snickered from the back of the audience chamber. Castor Aubericus did not flinch.

“The elf has too much power to be left as he is, Justi.”

“Ah, Castor,” Denarius added words to his laughter, drawl clear in the vaulted space. “You just don’t know how to handle them. Never have.” 

Castor glared. The judge sighed, still looking at the skinny offering before him, his family standing only a little farther back, eyes lowered and bodies over-still.

“Far be it for  _any_  of us to tell another how to keep his slaves,” he said, “But you wish to apprentice him. Yourself? This seems excessive.” 

“It is necessary,” said the younger magister, shoulders stiffening as Denarus strangled laughter in a cough. “Even freed, Leto was mine, first. I will oversee the training.” 

“To what end?” Danarius again. “To make a magister out of him? Stupid boy. He’ll be nothing more than liberati trash and trouble, no matter how you dress him up.” 

Castor watched the boy shudder. Remembered the fierce, bitten words of the week before, when he had taken Leto to his workroom and told him of his plans. 

 

_(“I will free you, so I can teach you,” he’d said. It had seemed simple enough. “Magic is only for free men.” “Not without my family.” Leto had glared, and Castor winced to think of cracks forming in the Fade around them, Demons that would be drawn to bright, clean anger._

_“Mages get what they want,” he’d said. “And if you’re to make a mage of me, I will have my family.”_

_“Fierce little wolf, aren't you?”_

_Leto had said nothing. Varania and their mother came with them to the Imperial Court the next session-day. )_

 

“Honoured Justi,” Castor said, turning his back to Denarius. “I stand by my decision. Will you give me yours?”

“Don’t hurry me, boy.” The old man snapped, eyes narrowing and one hand clenching about his staff. “Just needed to make it clear that it’s your own resources you’re squandering. I will free the elf, if you stand as guarantor. The elf and the rest of his brood.” 

The clap of a gavel, the scurrying of scribes, and it was done. The new liberati went very, very still.

“Charys, mother of Leto and Varania. Freed. Varania, sister to Leto, daughter to Charys. Freed. Leto—”

“—no,” said the child. “Not that name. Not any more.” 

The assembly stared. Castor swallowed a hiss. The judge merely sighed.

“Well?” he said. “What will you be, liberati mageling?” 

“Fenris,” he said. “My name is Fenris, here,” 


	2. Setting a scene - living some, and stealing others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The siblings are fifteen, and have different ideas of Tevinter social safety. Fenris dreams, Denarius stalks, and Varania's magic turns her to stone. 
> 
> Trigger warning for abuse, intimidation, and general Templar and Denarius squick.

_**Running in Circles - Stolen Scenes** _

_1 Watcher.)_

Fenris dreamed of stone walls. 

He knew all the words for it, now. Knew the states and the strangeness and the risk of demons. He knew that he was too well trained to fall headlong into the Fade; and that the fact he still did so, at least twice a week, was dangerous. Castor Aubericus would liken him to a mad Rivaini prophet. Denarius would sneer, and make sure to tell half of Minrathous that their liberati mageling was unstable. 

The Fade called to him, caught him up in the strange corner that took nights from Fenris’s life and bound them up in someone who was irrepressible. Glorious. And possibly stupid.

It still held snatches of the running boy 

Stone walls. Cloud-stone-grey-sky-mix-and-spill. A tower. Always a tower. Hardly ever the same one. Children in robes. The boy alone-and-not-alone, followed and fierce and fearful. The boy. Almost a man now (like him. Not like him. Nothing and everything like.) Fade. Fenris in the Fade. Watching. A boy-man in a tower, and a Templar there. 

 

 

> “Anders,” said the Templar.
> 
> He circled the taller, younger man, the space closing between them in the time it takes to blink. Flickering torchlight re-shaped his face and figure.
> 
> Anders kept very, very still.
> 
> “It’s such a stupid name.” 
> 
> “Could be worse.” Anders’s voice was soft, but he glared at the other man, eyes bright with the borrowed light, the shadows turning to fingers against his long, gaunt face.
> 
> “I don’t have anything to live up to, with a name like mine. While you, O Fine, Upstanding Templar…” he shook his head, and choked off a gasp as the Templar lunged, one gauntleted hand fisting in his hair.
> 
> “Your mother,” he wheezed. “Must be so disappointed in you.” 
> 
> (The defiance made Fenris’s breath catch. The defiance and the madness and the mess of teeth and hands and anger. He had watched bodies used as transaction before, but Anders raged, and it was too much, seeing the inside of a man’s heart all over his face.
> 
> It will kill him, one day, Fenris thought.
> 
> And one day, Fenris wanted to meet whatever demon was making him watch.) 
> 
> Anders again. Alone. Bruised and breathing hard, but with a smile like sunlight. One hand was clutched in his torn robes. The other held keys. Heavy and iron, on a plain ring that stained the palm. 
> 
> (No, do not try it again. Fenris had seen Anders escape for five years. He had seen him escape from towers and caves and a year of solitary confinement. He had seen sex and screaming and blood, and he had seen the hope that seemed to tell the mage that this time—this time—he would be free.)
> 
> “Tevinter,” Anders breathed, his smile softening and turning a little tremulous as the torches guttered and he hefted the weight of the keys.
> 
> “If I just **try** —” 

"--Fool.” 

The waking world.

Fenris shivered as he settled back inside himself, sweating and upright in bed, knees drawn up and eyes wide, his voice echoing off unadorned walls. 

 _If that mage comes to the Imperium_ , Fenris thought, head still half full of the Fade-seemings and mouth flooding with bile, _he shall be eaten alive._  

* * *

_2\. Brothers and boundaries_

 A boy and a girl—neither tall, both still gangling—stood in the large, central room of an empty house.

Fifteen, the boy might be. The girl a little older, their shared blood clearer in gesture and stance, and by the shape of their eyes and jaw, than in their colouring.

Her red hair caught in the light, braided and heavy, not a tendril out of place. His hair was dark, and a straggled mess across his forehead, against his neck. Magister robes were a rook’s muted blue-black against his gold-brown skin, though the buttons and charms at collar and side-seam did shine steadily, half from their own mage light, and half from the early afternoon. 

Varania stared at her brother. “You cannot be serious.” 

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “I thought my problem was that I was over-serious. At least it was last week.” 

“Very funny.”

The young woman shifted, breath leaving her in a rush, eyes intent. “We can’t set up this house without slaves. Fenris. It’s bad enough that everyone thinks—”

“— _Fasta vass_. Everyone may think what they like.” His voice cracked. A familiar, jarring awkwardness that made the tips of his ears turn pink. He did not move away.

“I won’t keep slaves,” he said, more softly. “Ever. How you can even _ask_ when—”

Varania shook her head. A small, convulsive shake. “How long do you think you can live as one of them, Leto? Master Aubericus got you this seat—”

“--That was for _his_ benefit, as well as mine. You know that. He has my vote for a year.” 

“ _If_ you live that long.” Variania threw her hands in the air, the gesture taking in the empty walls, the shadowed corners at the ceiling.

“If those vultures eat you, then what happens to us?” 

Fenris looked at his sister. This was a conversation replayed ever since the shock of their freedom had worn off, almost five years ago. It had been shouted. Whispered. Written and rushed and drawn out for days. It had haunted days in Castor Aubericus’s workroom, and followed him to the magesterium, where he had trapped three of his stronger kin in the Fade for a week to prove his power.

Magister Liberatus. Fenris. Upstart and ingrate and full of a magic that none of them dared remove. He had a house now. The idea was insane. 

“You are free,” he said. 

“And  _you_  are stupid. Have you ever thought, brother, that our keeping slaves would save people from other masters? You got this far because you were lucky. And I was the lucky sister. If we had any other master, what would have happened then?” 

“If even one Magister refuses slavery,” Fenris said, “Tevinter will rake note.” 

* * *

 _3 (Vulpes)._  

“May I bring you anything, D-Denarius.” 

Varania looked at the magister in her atrium, and couldn’t help the stutter.

She was _proud_ of that stutter. It was a tiny thing, a little hitch of breath to the cover the Master she did not say. She did not faint, or kneel, or run screaming and useless into the streets of Minrathous, even when that was what her body begged from her. 

Danarius’s answering smile was languorous. He waited for her to step forward, then seemed to _press_ as she moved into the main rooms of the house. Variana felt herded. She could feel the weight of the narrowing space against her back.

“You’ve missed Midday, I’m afraid, but I’m sure we can provide—” 

“—hush, child. No need to worry so.”

Danarius moved past her, body brushing against her side, hand moving to touch her hair. He laughed as she flinched away. 

“Such a fretful little fox,” he said, with a smile she could feel. “You work yourself like a  _slave_.”

They were in the solar, afternoon light catching the gold about his neck, in the thread of his robes. He laughed again, electricity playing across one broad and open hand. 

Varania swallowed. She wanted to glare. Fenris would glare. He would strike out and step forward and be more than his small height and still-breaking voice, because he was brave and angry and possibly stupid. But Fenris was not in the house. He was visiting Master Aubericus. They had business at the Senate.

( _Does Denarius know? He must, And if he knows it and he is **here** —_) 

All Varania could hear was her own heart in her ears, and her own breath as it struggled up a throat gone tight. There were stones in her belly and sweat on her back.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, voice thready, back straight. 

“To see the welp?” The magister grinned, “You do your best, little one, but our Fenris is never going to gain _that_ sort of social power. As you have probably told him. You are, by all accounts, a sensible girl—”

“—my brother could _kill you in your sleep_.”

The words fell out of her, too-fast and breathless, and they were followed by a bolt. Quick and aimed straight at her chest. Air rippled around it and the smell of ozone was harsh in the back of her throat. 

There was no time to flinch, but Varania would have tried anyway. She wanted to run, to fall—anything at all to keep her skill whole—but she couldn’t even cry out as the lightening hit and seemed to splash harmlessly off her body, because she had grown hard and still. 

“Rock armor,” Denarius had a hand on her shoulder. Varania could see it, though the touch didn’t register. His fingers drummed there, and she could hear a faint, hard tapping. “It seems that your young brother did not gain all the magery, little fox. Castor was shortsighted.”

He struck her, then. A sharp, hard blow to her shoulder that set the room ringing. He laughed.

“What _will_ they make of you, I wonder?” he asked, stepping away from her and backing towards the door. “Not so very much.” 

He left her, petrified, in her own house. 

* * *

 

By the time Fenris—all wild, sleepless eyes and annoyed stalk until he had seen her in the doorway—returned from his teacher's estate, Varania had recovered enough for her knees to buckle.

Her eyes were still fixed open and her hands clenched to stone-coated fists at her side. Her brother’s weight and warmth scattered oddly across her skin.  His hold was awkward, and Varania was glad that she could not talk, because he was muttering about residual magic and the Fade and why, and why, and  _how_ , and it was only the recalcitrant rock armor that stopped her from blushing with shame.

She had allowed Denarius to enter their home, and had felt so proud that she had not called the man Master. Her own magic felt small and useless, trapping her as much as his presence had done. She would learn, Fenris said. It would be all right, he said. 

Blood returned to her skin, and Varania shuddered, mute.   


	3. Power and position

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders is brought back more gently than usual, Fenris suffers from dialogue fatigue, and has a lot to prove. Warnings for torture in the second section, albeit brief.

_1 Play_

Fenris dreamed of hands.

 

 

>   There was the boy-man, Anders, his knuckles white against another’s robes. Older, taller; dark haired and sad-eyed, letting Anders pull at him.
> 
> “Hush.” 
> 
> “I cannot  _believe_  you did that. You’re on their side, now? That’s it? You’d bring me—”
> 
> “—I’d keep you  _safe_.” The stranger’s voice was low, resigned. The words all sounded as if they belonged in a play. Fenris, watching and wondering, would have rolled his eyes if there had been a body to control. 
> 
> “Karl.” 
> 
> “Hush.” Karl’s hands moving up Anders’s arms. One palm brushing against his cheek. “If they’d caught you this time, it’d be worse than solitary.” He paused. “Or  _more_  solitary. You know that.” 
> 
> “It’d be worth it. Just to see the looks on their faces.” White lines of tension bracketed Anders’s mouth, even as he leaned into the caress. “Always is.” 
> 
> _And this,_  Fenris thought, exasperated,  _is where the older one says, “What about the look on mine?” Delightul._
> 
> “Did you say something?” Anders’s expression had turned quizzical, head tilted. 
> 
> “No, just  _lis_ —oh, Maker curse it.” Karl kissed him, arms going about the taller, thinner mage. Hands on back, on jaw and throat and chest and all the places that hurt, with other people, but was turned into something oddly beautiful now.

Fenris closed his eyes. Attempted to slip into a safer, less crowded part of the Fade, but the colours of it (skin against the bruised blue-purple of mage robes; Anders’s light hair long and tangling in Karl’s fingers. White teeth bright against a beard. Skin flushing under touch, under sunlight tuned grimy through small, tower windows) stayed with him. The colours and the  _sounds_ —laughter and oaths and wetness and this-isn’t-over and I-wouldn’t-see-you-lost—and all the messy rest of it stayed with Fenris, and it made him learn that if his  _thoughts_  could blush, they would. 

It was ridiculous. He was from Minrathous. There were orgies every second week. 

Fenris still woke blushing and hard and annoyed, the involuntary voyeurism a constant in his life. 

* * *

 

_2 Power_

“Not getting enough sleep?”

A council day. Magisters were everywhere about the crowded space, taking seats on the low benches that shaped the Magisterium into a series of concentric circles—an architectural jibe to backwater Andrastians that had everyone step over each other’s feet and trip on their own robes in order to find a spot. Denarius sat beside Fenris, and smiled as the younger man scowled at the floor. “You’re looking your age, little wolf. Children need their rest.”

 _I will send you nightmares._ Fenris looked up, meeting cold eyes with what he hoped was an expression of boredom. “I could always take yours.”

“So _tetchy_ , Fenris. You need to stop looking like you have something to prove.”

“The day I heed your advice, Denarius, is—”

Pain. The small bones in his fingers breaking, one by one and up his hands, his wrists. Fenris staggered, feeling nerves pinch and warp as electricity was pulled from the Fade and into his body in the sort of subtle horror that Denarius had made his own before Fenris was born. The boy’s hands spasmed at his sides, and he cried out—low and sharp and brief—as the power arced up his spine and _pulsed_ there, until it felt as if his body leaked pain like sweat.

The magisters did not move from their seats. There was protocol to consider. Tests of strength were personal and constant. Fenris bit the inside of his cheek until it bled, and met the other mage’s eyes.

Denarius was smiling. But he was also pale, and Fenris saw the marks of strain his face as he directed the power. Normally, there were apprentices. People who could lend strength, willingly or not. But no apprentice could enter this hall, and Denarius— _fastavass-Maker-death-his throat-closing-nothing-to-breath-for-bleeding—_ had to rely on whatever lyrium remained in his own body for the length of any session.

And Fenris did not.

Closing his eyes, knowing he would fall from the bench and hating (with a breathless bit of himself that somehow wasn’t focused on Denarius’s careful shredding of his nerves) the physical helplessness of this particular branch of power, he called to the part of the Fade full of Denarius’s power.

It was a bright link, easily seen and pulsing like a thready heartbeat as Denarius’s supply of lyrium was exhausted. Fenris’s pain—tied to the body, to his mind’s awareness of it—was dimmer here. He could think. He could act. His own power shifted and coiled, and then snapped out around Denarius and _squeezed_ , thinning the other mage’s link to the Fade until he felt something small and fluttering and panicked in his grasp.

 

> _(_ The somniari. _Castor’s words low and resonant and fascinated, as he guided his apprentice through grimoires and the words Fenris’s had needed to read them. “You may never heal, boy, or pull fire or ice from the Fade,” he’d said. “But you can pull anything—anyone—you damn well want_ into _it. And keep them there. Or cut them off forever, like the piss-willed Chantry Circle does. It’s the the only punishment they have with any teeth.”)_

In the waking world, Fenris knew, Denarius would be unconscious. And, unlike Fenris, it would take hours before he was strong enough to wake.

He saw traces of the other magisters—the small anchors to the Fade that allowed them to pull power. They were as quiescent here as their bodies had been. Watchful. Disgusted, Fenris took every third pulled them unto sleep, feeling only a small tremor of apology as he felt Castor Aubericus’s link in the midst of them, shocked and outraged, then still. Making an exception of his former master was unacceptable.

 _Besides,_ he thought, enjoying the dash of gallows humour. _It would break the pattern._

Fenris opened his eyes and stood, remanants of the pain still sparking over his skin and sitting against his bones. Denarius lay at his feet. Across the hall, the concentric circles in the magisterium were blurred by fallen, sleeping bodies, and their neighbors stared up him, faces drawn. Fenris smiled.

"Was there anything else?”

* * *

_3 Precipice_

Anders did not dream. He mused. He planned. He fantasized. He wondered—daydreamed, even. His world was full of scribbled maps and skin and hope and anger, and his mind wandered so that, he imagined, it wouldn’t lose its sanity all at once. But sleep and unconsciousness were not the same thing—there was a small library’s worth of texts written on the subject—and he was a little too acquainted with the latter to have much to do with the former. Healings gone-on too long; Templars striking just a little too hard…dreams didn’t have chance around the concussion. But sometimes, he heard things. Saw flashes of higher, bluer skies and someone with hair too white for his voice. Never for long—never regularly enough to truly alarm him—but Anders couldn’t remember a time when he _hadn’t_ heard snatches, all the same.

 

 

>  
> 
> (“You’re mad.”
> 
> “It was effective, Varania.”
> 
> “You knocked out _thirty two magisters_.”
> 
> “It was _very_ effective.”)
> 
>  

Shaking his head to clear it, Anders knelt to shift a flagstone in his bed-cell floor, until tower keys glinted up at him.

Karl had caught him once. But he hadn’t searched.

Heart twisting even as he felt a wide, excited smile break out across his face, Anders gathered up the keys, feeling them warm sluggishly against his skin.

 _I’m sorry, love_. Heart beating fast, Anders did his level best to walk, not run, from the room. _If you want me safe, then Tevinter has_ got _to be better than here._

Resolutely ignoring every voice in his head, and the mournful tug at his heart, Anders escaped a Circle tower one last time.


	4. Cats and crises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris tries to be a good brother, while Anders sees Tevinter as a very happy tourist. Bad mixes of Latin, gameplay Tevene, and Koine abound. There is also a cat. And disappointment.

_1\. Annum_

Sixteen held no symbolic weight in the Imperium. The twins passed that mark with little ceremony—though Varania did set a couch on fire. Her gifts, anchored in fire and earth, were startling. But they were erratic. They both grew used to singed eyebrows. 

“I wouldn’t ever have been freed on _this_.” Varania shook her head, jaw clenching as the small spark she had pulled from the Fade died on her palm.

“You didn’t have to be.”

The girl sighed, voice taking on a distant, sing-song quality that echoed off the scant and smoking furnishings. “You always say that as if it’s meant to help.”

“It should.” Fenris snapped. “I—”

“—You, Leto—”

“— _Fenris_ —”

“— _Leto_ ,” she snapped, acid. “You are very fine and have come into your own in the magisterium. You’ll have lunch with the Archon and terrify the sheep to keep me safe and be very good at it, which is lucky for me because you’re also a _terrible_ teacher. And I…” she shrugged. “I have so little magical talent that if I’d been born free here I’d never have left the soporati. There is absolutely nothing you can do about that.”

Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose. Let the hand fall between them. “I am,” he agreed, “A terrible teacher.”

“Vile.” 

“Castor would be better.”

“You owe him too many favours.”

The smile surprised him. They usually did. Fenris let his fingers twine with his sister’s. “I would not manage half so well without you.” 

“Ah! Such _praise_. Fenris. I’m shocked.” Her answering smile was as sharp and lopsided as his. “I’d manage better if you let me buy someone for the house.”

Fenris scowled. “Servants—”

“—have _standards_. You know that.”

“I hope you set your hair on fire.”

“That,” Varania said, dry and resigned as she gently disentangled their hands, “Is about a 50/50 chance.”

* * *

_2\. Answers_

Fenris did not know why he argued with his sister, or she with him. He hadn’t, he thought, seen enough sibling pairs to compare. As a slave, you kept your connections close and secret; as a magister, you ate your relatives. Whatever the strange, prickly mess of love and rivalry was—and whether it was normal--was something he would have to figure out in the time before they killed each other (and regretted it deeply afterward).

_You’re starting to sound like him. In your head._

Anders had made it to Tevinter. He had made it months ago, stumbling from Carastes to Teraevyn, healing and—all the old gods die again and fall into the sea—begging his way onto boats and into houses. He had no grasp of Tevene. He had stronger, stranger healing gifts than anyone he had seen, and seemed to be following over seven years of failed escapes with the same weight in luck. Fenris still, for no reason he could understand, shared his dreams. And sometimes—only sometimes—it felt as if Anders shared them back. Which, of course, made no sense. It drove him to madness and parentheticals.

That gloriously insane man had made it to Tevinter, and Anders  _revelled_ in it. It made for good nights.

* * *

_3\. Alleyway_

Minrathous. It had chanters and vendors and statues on street corners—Andraste’s burning form mixed in amongst entwined lovers and children with too many limbs.

There were fountains of stone and glass, old and mage-wrought and taking up the day’s light to throw it back through water, dazzling newcomers as they stumbled about the edges of the city. Owls were painted into window ledges. Cats slunk in alleys and treated the shanty-roofs in the foreign quarter like a second road.  _Barbaroi_  or citizen, it didn’t matter. Minrathous had cats in every shadow.

It was, Anders thought later, entirely  _right_  that a cat got him in trouble. A sleek, little tabby of a thing, all points and paws and speed as it raced about his ankles in one of the outer markets. Following, just because he _could_ , was a a strange delight. He was halfway across Thedas. He was waters away from Kinolch Hold, he had snuck and healed and talked his way to Tevinter, and now he was learning a city through a cat. It was— _life_  was—

—a new alleyway. Bodies packed in tight. Muffled cries and strident curses and a boy, a dead weight and choking on his own collar.

Anders was no linguist. The only true one he knew was content at Kinolch Hold, and Finn would be _ever_ so superior at seeing him now, stepping forward when he only heard every third word.

The bodies spoke well enough: fear and confusion and _somebody **do** something_ —body language that had spoken to the mage since he was twelve and learning that when he moved in the Fade, sometimes people got better. The press eased as he moved forward, clasping the child’s shoulders and feeling exhaustion and the nausea of a broken collar bone twist through him. He healed, and a small part of him cried out as he felt older, deeper injuries beneath the new ones. That remote, clear corner of his mind wondering _how_ , and _why_ , and _what_ the rest of the frightened, stinking crowd meant. But the child’s pain was easing, now, and he didn’t have the legs to support his own knees.

_(I think I’ve got that backwards…)_

Hands had him, now. Heavy and sure and horribly familiar, even as the Tevene syllables—clear and orderly in texts and now too loud and bloodied for sense—overwhelmed him. The child stared at him. A small tabby slipped out of the alley.

“ _Ana_ pau—oh, blast it, _stop_.” Anders swallowed. “Str-striga! Strigare? _Stop_.”

Laughter. Passing air. Cracking pain at the back of his head.

Darkness. 


	5. The dog boy dreams of cats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders is introduced to his new position. Warnings for slavery squick and dreamscape sequences.

_1\. Servus_

“Dog boy.”

Stone and sun and blood, sticky where it didn’t crack, at his calf and forehead and the back of his neck. Anders groaned.

“Dog boy.” Weary words in distant, too-fast Common. “Dog boy, if you don’t move _right now_ they are going to beat you. Again.”

Anders shifted. Opened his eyes. A tall, thin man in Tevinter merchant garb—loose and blue-grey and rather the worse for wear—stared down at him with narrowed eyes.

“Where’m—”

The stranger cuffed him. “I said _move_ , not talk. If you don’t move, they’ll check to see if you’re dead.” A fast, sliding glance to the back of the room, where men with keys and rope moved amongst a crying, heaving crowd. “You don’t want that.”

(A room. They were in a room. _Vast_ , but full of air gone too close and too warm from other bodies. Light entered through skylights and seemed to drip in a slow waxen burn into his eyes, across his shoulders. Black spots moved in his vision. Whispers and whimpering and his hands were tied behind his back. His _hands_ were—”

“Templars!”

Rough hands on his jaw, forcing his head up. “Shut. _Up.”_

Dust. Blood. Stone. Stone on his knees and against his back. _Concussion._ The thought had too many syllables. His interrogator doubled and swam, fingers hard points against his skin. _You’re concussed._

 _“_ They said you’re a healer, dog boy. That means a lot, here. Enough that _I_ get sent to nursemaid you, since you’ll sell better if you can understand your betters and it was my misfortune to have a mother from your Ferelden pisshole. So, it’d be a real _safe_ idea to listen to me, now you’re awake. Got it, dog boy?”

“What…” Anders shivered, tried to pull out of the other man’s hold. “And I _hate_ dogs.”

A brief, pained look on the stranger’s face. (Pale. Dark-eyed. A tattoo curling about the left eye and across the forehead). Anders cried out as spittle hit his cheek.

“My name is Celsus,” he said. “And _dogs_ hate you, right now. You are _servus_. You are _nothing._ _Venhedis._ ”

Words. More words. All Tevene, and cut with bows and jerks and a slow, sick understanding.

_Servus. Servus. Servus._

* * *

 

_2\. Sentry_

“Fenris? Fenris, what is it?”

Varania stood in the doorway to Fenris’s room, one hand resting on the wall. Fenris was sitting up in bed, ashen and pinched and with his hands clenched in his hair.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Nothing. Just a dream.”

“Said the _dreamer_.”

Fenris’s hands loosened, but he did not smile. “I’ll just have to sleep again,” he said. “So I can fix it.”

* * *

 

3\. _Silence_

Templars. Anders dreamed of Templars. Sunbursts and lye soap and their steps, heavy outside his door in that last year of solitary, when his pulse had struggled and strained whenever they had come near. They taunted him. Standing outside his door and just _staying_ , for hours on end, until he was sure he could hear their breathing through the walls and he would be a good boy—please, _such_ a good boy, if he could only see someoneelse. Anyone else.

He’d dreamed voices, then. All sorts. His mother—though her face was blurred by then. He dreamed of First Enchanter Irving (”I shall try and do you a kindness, Anders”) and of Wynne, the woman who crackled with energy when she thought her students weren’t looking. Finn with his lexicons, and the pretty, young Amell girl who never seemed to notice when Templar Recruit Cullen stared too hard and too long. Another voice was just his name. Over and over—rough and on the edge of panic.

“Anders. _Anders_. That is your name, isn’t it? Idiot mage. Do you even have any idea where you are?” Fear and exasperation. A hint of a body in the tower, sweeping dream-figures aside with a long-fingered hand.

Cullen spat on him, but then shrieked and tore at his own hair, dissolving into the wall. Solona Amell sprouted griffin feathers and flew away. Wynne’s staff turned into a pike and his mother fell on it, screaming and singing and splitting into three as Irving fell through the floor. Leaving Anders alone.

Alone, except for a hitch in breath, and the walls of the tower lightening and moving farther away in slow, careful inches. Anders heard the gruff voice again, softer and familiar in the way of dreams.

“Don’t let your dreams overrun you, mage,” it said, for all the world as if it should make perfect sense. “You are going to need one safe space.”

“If my _head_ is where I’m supposed to be safe,” Anders muttered, surprised that he had a voice, “Then I am completely buggered.”

The other voice said nothing, but the tower walls had moved far away. He was outside, with no lake in sight. Just grass and willows and a brook that twisted through the landscape and showed a bright mix of stones and clear browns and the blue of a new sky. A cat was curled up behind his knees. A safe space.

There was precious space for sleep.

 


	6. Chaos in the market square

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders gets to know his cranky hallucination. Fenris is placed in an uncomfortable position.

_1\. Searching_

Fenris walked Minrathous’s slave pens in the public square every day for three months. His supporters said it was a protest—a small way to protect the newly bought or recently sold from anyone stupid enough to mistreat the merchandise in front of the Liberati Magister. But Danarius saw them sweat. Castor was strained beneath his layers of self-righteousness. Magister Aurelia Despine—barely older than the elf and with hardly a slave to her name even before it became fashionable to ‘Show power through the self alone,’ or whatever fool motto the group put to themselves—trailed along behind, making big eyes at Fenris’s pretty sister and buying the smallest, the frailest, and the most useless of the lot, who were freed to be caught again. But she too looked on in confusion as Fenris moved from vendor to vendor, scowling and silent and moving with a little more urgency every day.

He was bad for business. Denarius supposed that was the point.

* * *

 

  
_2\. Gifts of sleep_

Celsus eyed his charge. Anders—his name had come out with the piss and whining and the slow, stumbling grasp of Tevene that had filled the past weeks—knelt neatly at his side, ignoring the hair that blew into his eyes. Master Nicodemus would not have the pet healer shown until he could be trusted not to spit, and so he had been moved from group to group as the rest of the stock changed hands. Now, he was almost decent. It helped that the strange bastard slept like a babe. It was magic, Celsus thought. Had to be. Anders had moved from the sort of panic and rage that spelled a harsh and painful breaking into the sort of dull calm that only the slave-born could manage. Celsus kicked him.

“Are you witching yourself, dog boy?”

Anders did not look up. “Not I,” he said, Tevene accented but understandable.

“Not I _what?”_ Celsus sighed, switching forms so he spoke like the querulous old widow-woman who would probably salivate over a healer. He kicked again.

“Not I, mas- _mistress_.”

“Better,” Celsus said. “And it’ll have to stay that way. We’ve buyers coming in tomorrow. The Master’s sick of you.”

Anders stayed silent. But Celsus did not miss a shudder.

* * *

 

_3\. Sustenance._

Anders dreamed of sanity. Which was, he thought, a sign that he was truly mad.

“I can’t help you if you can’t find out where you _are_.”

The voice in his dreams was bossy. A match for the brisk way he dealt with the seemings and screams that leaked in whenever Anders wasn’t careful. He dismissed old Templar memories and flashes of new beatings with the wave of a hand—only without the hand. Anders never saw a face. Just the edges of a shape—roughly male, when it was there at all. Mostly, the voice came from whatever Anders dreamed of that night. Karl. Celtus, the slave of the slaver. His mother. That was particularly unsettling.

“They keep _moving_ me. I told you. Besides. You’re an hallucination. You’ve _already_ found me.”

Nothing after that. The sky darkening overhead.

“But don’t go.” Anders swallowed. “You’re a _nice_ hallucination. If a bit moody. You— _why_ do you do this?”

“Do your hallucinations generally answer back?” The sky brightened. Anders felt a breeze move through his hair, touch his cheek.

“I never said you were a _normal_ hallucination.”

“I’m…” More movement in the air. A blurred sketch of a slight body, with a new tree to lean against. “I am _somniari_. A dreamer. Surely you’ve worked out that much, Circle mage. I’ve seem your libraries.”

“Somniari,” Anders said, squinting, “Don’t exist. Not any more. There are only ever scattered accounts from—”

“—The Imperium, Pay attention.”

Anders shifted. The figure was dissipating again, the small open space that he had carefully shaped from the Fade mutating to a small cold stone cot and the pain of a bruised hip, his throat dry and tight and—”

“— _Pay attention_.” Softness. Darkness. A hand on his forehead and light warm and soft against his closed eyes. The dreamer seemed to sigh.

“The thing I don’t understand,” Anders said, voice small and hoarse, “Is why you never talked to me _before_. If you’ve been part of the Fade— _watching me_ —for _years_ —” he swallowed. “Then you’d know there were other times when I could have used a cranky hallucination. Look, do you have a name? Please?”

“My name is Fenris. And I…” a pause stretched, making him squirm. “I didn’t speak to you because I didn’t know I could. I am—” stilted words, and something like swallowed laughter. “Younger than you think.”

* * *

 

_4\. Exchange_

“Magister. My lord Magister. You’ll see he’s very fine."

Danarius sighed. Nicodemus was normally a discerning vendor. But the tall, ill-shaven Fereldan kneeling before him was too old and too raw for any use. He had been washed, his hair curled slightly past his jaw and shining a pleasing red-blond in the midday light. His eyes were downcast, but his shoulders and back were rigid; too harsh, too thin. Whip-scars gone blurred and wide with age curled over his back and around to his chest. He was biting his lip. Wide, high cheekbones showed red—more anger than embarrassment, if he was any judge. The slave would be trouble. And not, the Magister thought, worth the effort in breaking.

“Honestly, Nicodemus. You _know_ my—”

“—My lord.” Nicodemus was sweating. “This is a spirit healer.”

Denarius paused. “Truly?”

“Saw it with my own eyes, my lord. Three months gone, now. I’ve kept him special, had one of my half-breeds teach him to speak like a citizen. He’s surprisingly docile for a dog lord.”

The slave twitched.

Denarius let his hand catch in the man’s hair, pulling his head up and back. Clear brown eyes and a well-shaped mouth. All his teeth. That almost made up for the scars—though if he had been a mage under the White Divine, with its travesty of a Circle, then the scars made sense. Now was looking, there was power behind the bound hands and panicked, angry expression. “A rarity, then. This, I can work with.” He smiled, hearing the relieved catch in the slaver’s breathing. “Perhaps.”

“No!”

Denarius stilled. The slave made a strangled noise, deep in the throat. Nicodemus’s eyes were wide, staring at something over Denarius’s shoulder. The magister released the stock, and turned to face it"

“Fenris,” he said. “This is unusual. Like what you see?”

“No—I—you can’t buy him. He’s not…” the last time the upstart had stuttered this badly, he had been facing the judge who freed him. Denarius stared.

“Nicodemus,” Fenris snapped. He looked straight at the slaver, hands slowly rising, wide at his sides. “I’ll take this one.”

“You _,_ M-magister? I—that is, this is—"

“ _You,_ Fenris?” Denarius laughed. He couldn’t help it. The boy looked miserable. Strangely, the slave whimpered again, fixed on the scene. “You’d break your lofty vows for _this?”_ He kicked out lightly, laughing as the slave, caught off guard, sprawled on the market floor.

“My lords—”

“—shut up, Nicodemus. This is really  _too_ good.” Still smiling, Denarius shifted to face a growing crowd. “ Good citizens. Do you see? Magister Fenris, who has spent years telling you he is _too good_ for us and our ways, wants to squabble with me here, in the _public square_ , over a poor excuse for a Ferelden mage.” The smile became a smirk. He bent to the younger mage’s level, letting his voice carry in a stage whisper. “Fenris, he doesn’t even look like he can help your poor little sister around the house. If you wanted help you need only _ask_ —”

“—Denarius. _Enough.”_

“Oh, but you really _want_ this. And that just makes me want to know why, little wolf.”

“I have never,” said Fenris, “Stood between you and your property.”

“Which is precisely what you’re trying now."

“The mage is _not_ —”

Denarius raised a hand. Fire caught there, and people looked up from all around the square as the two magisters stood, face to face. “Bid for it,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me, boy. If you want this slave, then bid for it. Bid in public, and bid well, so everyone can see. I might even give you a chance.” 

 


	7. Thirteen talents - scale, balance, sum.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Denarius decide the weight of a man, and everything is appalling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've used talents (talentos/telentum) as a unit of measurement and currency, for lack of Tevinter specifics in-game. A Roman talent was about 32kg in gold. In Attic Greek, at different points in literature and history, one talent could be the equivalent of nine years skilled labour or enough silver to feed a trireme crew of 200 men.

_1\. Colour_

In the Fade, the world often moved quickly, full of changes and turns—liquid turning sharp edged, colours sliding out from unexpected places. He had seen the somniari shape rooms out of nothing, make the air shift with the colours and and moods in his voice. The switch from warehouse to auction yard was just as jarring. Splinters cut into his back, as he was hauled and tied and raised above a growing spill of people. Children. Old men. Women lighting torches with magic about the square, which made his breath catch even as Nicodemus leered and told the crowd to eye the length of his leg, the strength in his hands.

“It’s so fine,” the master cried, “Even Magister _Fenris_ wants a piece.”

Fenris. The elf. The lanky-boy man with wide, near-panicked eyes and the most ferocious sneer Anders had seen on anyone who wasn’t also a chantry gargoyle. Dark skin. Messy hair. Somniari. The dreamer—a stripling. His voice in the dark.

A magister. Buying a slave.

Anders was flushed. He could feel it. Hot blood in his face and a shriveling, sinking twist in his stomach. The endless series of warehouses and Celsus’s twisted method of teaching had not prepared him for this. Years in the Circle had not prepared him for this. Humiliations were meant to be _secret._ The Circle kept all of the Templars in plain sight; kept a world of nasty filth contained, and Anders understood that even as he’d hated. The world was full of monsters behind walls and down hall. And sometimes they won and feasted because there was no justice and never any choice. But Minrathous had him strung up for all to see, while magic filled the air like road dust or birdsong—public and unremarkable.

Tears made his eyes burn and stick, bodies below writhing and refracting until the colours of things seemed to escape their lines. Fenris’s hair leaked into skin and the blue-black of his robes. Denarius’s beard dripped down his throat. Someone with hair the colour of carnelians was tugging at Fenris’s arm. He brushed her off, but Anders saw his hand cup her cheek.

A magister. Buying a slave.

“Who will buy? Who will begin?”

* * *

 

_2\. Contempt_

Fenris saw Anders retreat. It was a subtle thing—he was trussed to the central auction platform with Nicodemus circling about his feet. His body had no room for loud signals. But Anders had been tense with outrage and raw embarrasment thick enough for the crowd to taste. Now, there was a slackness to his face. A slump to his shoulders that Fenris remembered from shared dreams of failed escape.

“What do you think you’re _doing_?” Castor Aubericus was shouting at him. Fenris turned. His former master stood behind Varania, jaw tight and one hand clutching the fire amulet he had worn since the long-ago attack on his house.

“The only reason your campaign has survived this long,” he said, “Is because of your foolheaded but _impressive_ refusal to take part in the trade. You know that. I didn’t raise you to be stupid. If you do this now—"

“—you didn’t raise me. You bought me. That you chose to free your property makes no difference.”

“That you’re an insufferable shit makes no difference. But _buying that slave_ —”

“—is necessary. Denarius won’t have him.”

“No,” Varania said, low, face white and pinched. “He’ll have your eyeballs for a necklace.”

Fenris cupped her cheek, feeling her surprise in the brief touch. “The only reason my campaign has survived this long,” Fenris said, quiet and still and with his back to the man being sold in the square, “Is that I terrify almost everyone here. _That_ isn’t going to change.”

“Who will buy?” The auctioneer’s voice broke over them, lilting and quick with the words runing together, focusing all eyes to the centre of the public space. “Who will begin?”

* * *

 

_3\. Conviction_

“Four talents—”

“—four-and-two.”

“Four and two, my lords. Four-and-two for the dog lord. Magister Denarius, do you--”

“— _Five_ talents.”

“No gentle bids today, my lords! Five talents. That’s five talents. Five-talents-on-the-sale-will-you-match- _can_ -you-match-five-talents—!”

“—Six,”

(”Fenris!”)

“And you do _right_ to gasp, my lords! Six—”

“—Seven talents _, liberati._ may your skin dissolve in the air.”

“I always thought you spent your coin on whores and impotence charms, Denarius. Well done! Seven-and-six.”

“Seven-and-six-my-lords-seven-and-oh-no—we-have-a-a-nod-from-Denariusthat’s _eight talents_ -eight-talents-if-you’d-confirm—”

“Eight talents, that is correct. But well _played,_ Fenris. Does it feel good? I’m sure it—”

“ _Kevesh._ Thirteen talents.”

 **(** ” _ **Fenris.”)**_

* * *

  _4\. Cede._

Silence. Breathing and sweat and silence, Fenris standing still and white lipped until Denarius spat at his feet.

“Are you done?”

The auctioneer passed a hand across his eyes. “My lords?"

“We are done here.” The older magister shook his head. “If this child wishes to spend the wealth of more than 70 strong men on one pathetic object, that is his choice, and may he starve on it.” He smiled. It was slow, and bright, and poisonous. “And it was delightful to help you all see _exactly_ what our selfless compatriot wants. If I might do the honours?"

Fenris stepped forward. “Denarius, if you—”

“—Thank you.” Denarius moved to where Anders still stood tied, and sliced through the bonds and shoulder and ankle, elbow and waist, laughing as the slave fell forward.

“Here, Fenris. Take your new pet. He’s waiting.”

Fenris stared at the fallen mage. He was coughing, shoulders heaving with it, and hair falling over his face and rope marks blooming over his skin. Dust streaked and sweat smeared, and bought for the same price that had covered an elvhen woman with two infants, seventeen years before, the record of sale kept neat and clear in Castor’s logbooks.

 _You bought me. That you chose to free your property makes no difference._ His own words circled about, stuck in his throat, under his skin. He could not stop staring at the slave. At Anders, who had stopped coughing but refused to look up. He stared, and Varania made an exasperated, pained noise. She stepped forward to ease the man to his feet and then walk the short, impossible space to the auctioneer and his scribes. The crowd milled and whispered. Denarius smirked. Castor was gone.

And Fenris felt like a hole had opened up in the world. 

  
  


 


	8. glass and blood and papercraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris puts on an act, while Anders gives up his own.

_1\. Realisation_

Tevinter, no matter what the scholars say, is a city of ritual. There are patterns in its roof-tiles and omens in its entrails. Fenris, watching the crowd disperse and linger by turns, knew that Denarius was still watching, even out of sight. They all did. Magisters and vendors and servants and slaves. He imagined freeing the mage right here—his first and only act as an owner. It was the sort of dramatic move on which he thrived. It would fit. It would ease the tightness in his chest, the panic in his throat. Castor would call him reckless. The world would make more sense.

And the mage would be a foreigner in Tevinter, more used to captivity than freedom.

He wouldn’t last five minutes.

Fenris resigned himself to guilt and ritual.

* * *

_2\. Civilisation._

Anders was quiet until the blood.

Once Varania had seen him to his feet, she stepped ahead--head high and face impassive. Fenris matched her, and the hired muscle that came with any market day pushed Anders into their wake. Scribes waited, eyes curious even as their speaker kept her tone studied, almost bored.

“Human male. Mage. Ferelden.” A nod. The air about them was thick with scribing smells: indigo and lampblack; rag and bone and sheep fat. The head scribe eased a cramp in her wrist, before nodding again. “Name?”

“Anders.” Fenris said the name without thought, rough and quiet. His sister gave him a sharp look. Breathing patterns changed behind him. He watched the scribe as she shaped the letters. The small movements in hand and wrest, arm and shoulder. The scribe stopped. Looked up. Shrugged.

“Bring him forward and hold out his arm.”

A small, anxious noise. Guards brought Anders forward until he was facing his own name, and another scribe reached forward to grasp his right arm, palm upward. Another drew out a vial, meeting Fenris’s eye before looking hurridly away.

“Magister Fenris? Forgive me, but I thought you might not—you might not have—”

Fenris took the vial. It was small and cold against his fingers. Fine, bright glass from Perivantium, where the Falgard kept their fires. “You thought right.” Brusque. It was easiest to stay brusque, with too many people watching. Anders was looking wild about the eyes, breath growing harsh. Fenris unstoppered the vial, and drew his belt knife, laying the small edge against Anders’s wrist.

“What are you doing?” Small, rapid words, soft and ragged in Trade Common. “This can’t—you _can’t_ —” His eyes moved from the knife, to Fenris’s face, to the vial. “I _left this_.”

“Shut up.” Fenris pressed down, catching the blood as it welled up in thick, heavy drops. “Did you think we collared slaves in the Imperium?” Fenris kept the words harsh. Anders was starting to shake.

Fenris spat. Side-on to the audience. “The glass is tuned to your blood,” he said, in slow, careful Tevene. “If your blood leaves the city, the glass cracks. If the glass cracks, your blood heats inside your veins until it evaporates through your skin. It is simple.”

Softer, low; spoken in Trade. “When freed, there is a way to destroy the spell.”

If Anders heard the poor comfort, he gave no sign. He wept.


	9. Hope at the end of a headache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders tries to understand, Fenris tries to apologise, and Varania remains the only one of them with anything close to sense.

1\. _Brothers and sisters_

Varania kept her peace until she was home. Until she could lean against one wall of the atrium and let the slanting afternoon light blind her to her brother’s face. 

“I want to ask what you just did. And that is silly, of course, because the whole of Minrathous and its sparrows saw what you just did and that it was the most—”

“—Varania--

“— _stupid—_ what were you _thinking?”_

“ _Fasta vass,_ Varania, you’re terrifying him.”

Varania paused. The slave had been standing some distance behind them, looking blankly at the drying blood on his hand. The whole over-tall, human mess of him made her skin itch. Now, he was on his knees. Bile rose, sharp and fast. She forced it down.

“If you wanted to buy slaves to free them, we could have been doing it for years.” She couldn’t read the expression on her brother’s face. “We could have helped dozens, in the name of building a household. _Now,_ you’ve just…” Varania sighed, and dropped to her knees before the frightened man.

“Don’t do that,” she said. Her Trade was not as good as Fenris’s, the words sitting a little too heavy in her mouth, but it would serve. “I apologize for speaking over you. My name is Varania. I don’t know what my brother thought, bringing you here. He’s too busy being cryptic to tell us anything useful. He is a magister—everyone has been telling him how clever he is since he was ten. Sometimes, it makes him stupid.”

“ _Varania—”_

  
She held up a hand, not looking away from the human’s bent head. “— _Stupid_ , but not bad, so I’ll speak for him. Yes, he bought you. Yes, you were sold a slave. So was our mother. And her mother. Now, we are liberati. You know the word, yes?” He did not buy you to _keep_ you. You can be freed. Please, could you look at me?” Quiet, careful words without a trace of command in them. She felt it as Fenris shifted from foot to foot behind her. Felt the ache in her knees from a chipped tile. The man’s head shifted, and his eyes for locked on hers for just a moment, tired and confused and a peculiar, light shade of brown. She nodded. Did not smile.

“They all said your name, but could you tell me?”

“Anders,” he said. The voice was a bruised, light tenor. “My name is Anders.”

“Thank you.”

Fenris’s hand fell to her shoulder, and squeezed. Now, she did smile. “Are you back with us, brother? If you are, then I think Anders deserves an explanation. And tea, if you remembered to buy it when I asked. And sleep.”

“—sleep is probably the last—”

“—not sleep!”

Fenris’s wry, slightly strangled diffidence and Ander’s appalled half-gasp crashed together over her head. The unison was awkward and discordant and nearly made Varania jump out of her skin. Anders was glaring up at her brother, while Fenris shifted again, clearing his throat. Anders made it to his feet. He swayed, but he crossed his arms. “S-somninari.”

Why this should make Fenris smile, Varania had no idea. But he was smiling. A smile, strange, sad smile that she had never seen before.

“For what it is worth, idiot mage, I _am_ sorry.”

“Is it worth my freedom?” Swaying had turned to shakes. Varania watched with some fascination as white lines stood out about Anders’s mouth. He held his hand out now. The right one, with blood on the palm. “Is it worth undoing _this?”_

Fenris closed his eyes. Varania knew _that look_ too well. She sighed conspicuously.

“Could one of you please help me up? Your looming makes me nervous.”

* * *

 

_2\. Squalor and charm_

The mansion was, as mansions went, small. And it was shabby. There were _worlds_ of things stuffed in corners. Gold and statuettes and sacks that bulged mysteriously under light that had turned grimy as it tried to force itself through windows covered in a year’s worth of dust. The three of them were standing in a large, central space that was more glass than wall, with patterns showing through on the floor tiles. Dragons and twisted trees and spirals, all in poor repair, though there was a working fountain in one corner, and flashes of what he thought might be fish.

He hadn’t seen any of this as the two Tevinter elves had led him to their home. Hadn’t seen much of anything until the red-headed girl had knelt and spoken to him like a broken horse, careful never to touch or shout. Her eyes, when he met them, were just the same as her brother’s, who did not seem to know where to look. There had been tea. Anders couldn’t touch it. And now, standing under his own power and listening as Fenris failed to talk anything that resembled sense to his sister, he couldn’t stop looking at the squalor and the strangeness, at the blood on his hand.

The cut was half healed already, shallow enough to scab.

“Anders.”

_Pay attention._

_My name is Fenris. I am…younger than you think._

“Anders.”

_Shut up. Do you think we collar slaves in the Imperium? If you leave the city—_

“— _Anders.”_ Varania’s voice, sharp and low-pitched for a woman, and loud enough to make him flinch.

“I’m not going to find any sort of sense from this—” she waved both her arms, the gesture capturing her brother, himself. “Until the two of you have talked.” She eyed him. “Or hit each other.”

“Varania…”

The young woman sighed. “Leto, if I had a gold piece for every time you’ve said my name today, I could marry myself off to the Archon. I’ll be in my rooms.”

“Be kind to each other,” she said.

Neither of them said a word as she left.

* * *

 

_3\. Limits and lines_

“My sister is right, you know.”

Fenris was pacing. Anders passed a hand over his eyes, trying to ignore his headache and the echo of bare feet on tile. There were no benches here. Just the floor and a fishpond. He didn’t have to kneel. They said that. They both had, the boy and the girl in Minrathous. The magister and his sister. The voice in the dark. The world tilted. Slipped. He sat.

“Are you well?”

Fenris was sitting opposite him, crosslegged, which hiked his robes up past the knee on one side. The elf hadn’t seemed to notice. 

Anders shifted father away. “Your sister is right about what?”

A small smile. “Many things. But I did not…” he swallowed. “I _had_ to buy you, Anders.”

They both looked at his right hand. “Am I meant to be flattered?”

Fenris’s shoulders slumped. “If I had not found you when I did—if Denarius had bought you—the last three months in those hovels would have been _nothing._ Your strange, twisted Circle and its Templars—” the word sounded strange with his voice, and his words were picking up speed, hard and loud and all in a tumble. “—They would be nothing at all compared to what that magister could do to you. He is vile even amongst carrion. He breaks people, and thinks nothing of it. He would have you tied up like a pet. What was it they called you? Dog boy? You would be his hound, and grateful for it, if he didn’t kill you first.”

“ _Stop_. Please.”

“My apologies.” Fenris let his hands fall flat and open on his knees. Anders watched the movement and tried to breathe. “But he would, mage. All of that and more. And because he nearly _had_ you, I stepped in. Because I stepped in, he saw myinterest. And Denarius despises me. He has a habit of breaking things I care for, when he can.”

A shrug. “Not often. I am stronger than he is. It would be nothing to drive him mad from lack of sleep, and the magisterium would allow it, if I was…” he smiled thinly, “Sufficiently provoked. But that is beside the point. And no citizen can touch another’s property. If he had bought you there would be nothing I could do about it.” He paused. “Except help you die in your sleep, perhaps.” 

Anders stared. “You,” he said. “Are _insane_.” 

“Perhaps. But I would free you, if I could. I _will_ free you. But Denarius knows where you are. That you were, as far as half of the city could see, worth more money than sense.”

Anders was used to this voice talking while he slept. He would wake up any minute. “You _really_ know how to talk to people.”

“He would like nothing more than to hand me your entrails in a gold casket, if it would upset me. But he can’t touch you, because—”

“—because you _bought_ me.” A beat. “You bastard.”

Fenris met his eyes. “We just need to wait until something else occupies him. It will take time. It will take…acts, like my performance for the scribes.” His gaze moved to Anders’s hand. Back to his face. “But my sister is right. You will be free.”

“And what do I do in the meantime, _master?”_ Anders watched Fenris flinch. All two-and-a-half of him. His headache really was appalling. “It would take more than one of me to clean this hovel.” 

The elf laughed, and then looked faintly startled to have done so. “You are a mage in Tevinter,” he said. “Even as a slave, you wouldn’t be expected to clean. Your healing skills will be useful, if you would lend them. And Varania needs a teacher.”

“Your sister’s a mage?”

“Not with me for a master” Fenris’s eyes narrowed, and he let out an exasperated huff of breath. “Mage, heal yourself before you fall over.”

Anders swallowed. “Make me,” he whispered.

“No.

“Then fine," he said.  "I will.”


	10. Interlude: Lothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Anders and Fenris navigate their lives in Tevinter, a blight is stirring in Ferelden.

_Meanwhile, in Lothering, 927: Dragon…_

 

Bethany Hake cried. She couldn’t help it. The tears felt separate, somehow—as if she was removed from her own face, and it was only her mother’s distress and Carver’s increasingly clumsy attempts at comfort her that told her tears still streaked, silent and slightly sticky, down her cheeks. Marian was busy. But Marian always was.

The crying didn’t get in the way of helping mother with the sewing—endless now that Marian had managed to charm her disreputable self into the King’s armies, and Carver followed right behind. It didn’t stop her from practice, or the right breathing, or even visiting Leliana each week after the Chant. The Lay Sister had, she said: “Seen it all before, _ma petite._ Grief is a strange and wicked thing.”

Grief. That was a word for it. Grief was as good a reason as any to walk in Lothering’s outskirts—a better excuse than she had had before, sneaking out with her father to practice magic where only animals or witches might see. She still practicing, learning the the force and the weight and the edges of things; the magic that spoke to her particular gift. And if Bethany’s wandering made Leandra nervous, it was an easier fear than what she felt seeing her daughter weep without a sound, thin red lines splitting her cheeks from the salt, until someone told her to heal them. She always did, and the crying _did_ stop. Whole hours at a time.

Bethany had started crying the week after her father died. The day she went to their old practice spot and found that he was sitting in the grass, waiting for her. 

  
  


> “This is—you are _not_ —” 
> 
> “Be calm, child. Yes. Child. You are his child.” The voice was not her father’s. The body was was turning blue. She saw bruises on his face, his whole left side where he must have lain, the blood cooling in his body. She screamed, pulling fire through her staff—not her natural element, but _right_ for this, surely. The only thing that could clean the body of what held it. Clear her mind from the sight. Fear gave her strength and she felt wide open, knew the flame would be hot enough to reduce the body to white ash. 
> 
> Force knocked her back. Wild and sparking and strong enough to drive the wind from her. She gasped. 
> 
> “The mage who inhabited this body was worried about his child.” The voice again, sonorous and a little sad, but faintly bewildered underneath it all. “He worried about all his children. But there was a mage. His Bethany. You are she, are you not?”
> 
> Bethany coughed, struggling to sit. “ _Abomination.”_
> 
> “NO!” The voice turned to thunder, the body struggled to its feet. It wobbled. One ankle was broken, and crackled obscenely as it tried to shift its weight. “I am a spirit of the Fade. You can sense it, if you try. A spirit of Justice.” 
> 
> “Only demons travel outside the Fade.” The pain in her ribs was easing, now. Bethany blinked black spots away. 
> 
> “Only demons want to. This is true. They seek a grounding. A world that does not change with a thought. But there is more to the Fade than its demons, and I was..” The head cocked. “Drawn to the mage—to your father. He was working a spell of protection when he died.” The body—the spirit?—looked down. His shirt was torn, burns and bite marks covered his chest, still raw at their centres, blackening and weeping at their edges. The air stank with death. “And I found myself here. It is…distressing to me.” 
> 
> “Distressing to _you_?” 
> 
> “Yes,” it said. “This world is confusing. His thoughts, his memories—they are very loud. His fears for you have kept me here, in case you would return. Now that you have, I am at a loss.” 
> 
> Bethany swallowed, eyes sliding from the body’s face. “A spirit of Justice, you said.” 
> 
> “Yes. This body was very concerned with Justice.” The voice sounded approving.
> 
> “ _This body_ ,” Bethany said, voice thick as she gestured toward it. “Was Malcolm Hawke.” The mage was not sure about the thing that was rising in her throat. Half vomit and half laugher. The spirit was quizzical and strange and wearing her father’s bones like ill-fitting clothes. Her mother would be appalled. Her _father_ would be appalled. He was vain, when he thought he could get away with it. Vain and strong and nowhere near. A giggle escaped. She pressed a hand to her mouth. 
> 
> “Malcolm Hawke would not want me to leave you, and I do not know how to return to the Fade. Destroying this body would be singularly ineffective. I’m sorry? Your face seems to be leaking.”
> 
> “Oh, don’t mind me.” Bethany gasped. “Gallows humor.” 
> 
> “I do,” said the spirit. “You are unsettling. And you are not very good at shields.This body always intended—”
> 
> “—father always meant to teach me.” Bethany wiped her eyes. The tears wouldn’t stop, though she could feel her breathing start to even out. “Could you, do you think?” 
> 
> “There are some precepts a mortal might understand, yes.” 
> 
> “Then I could use a little justice, I think.” The girl sniffled. “Mother always said it was _somewhere_.
> 
>   
>    
> 

That had been months ago. Months of lessons and tears and Darkspawn gathering in pockets of the Wilds. There was a Blight on the horizon. Everyone said. Justice taught her stronger shields. Spirit energy—something she had never had an aptitude for—came easier. And he liked to talk. He liked to listen to her stories—the years of moving, and the guilt that gnawed at her whenever her brother tried to hide her from Templars, or Marian talked their family out of awkward questions. Marian and Carver were clean and safe. She caught their mother smiling over imagined wedding clothes. Magic had kept her apart. Kept them running. The only joy she had from had been the secret times with her father. Justice heard it all. He crackled with outrage. He wanted to hear about who was hungry, and who could be helped. He crackled at Bethany’s stories of the Circle, listened darkly as she wondered what had happened to Aunt Revka’s child. Solona Amell has visited them once, before Lothering. Bethany had been very small, but she remembered the other girl’s fear. Malcolm had wept when they heard she had been taken. 

“You make me wish I could _change_ things,” Bethany said. “We’ve always just…run. And I wanted to change myself. But magic is—”

“Magic is part of you. It is part of this world.” Justice shrugged. He picked up human motions haphazardly, the way small children picked up stones or shiny objects—holding them close until he forgot again. These days, he shrugged. They both stopped moving when a tendon popped and cracked. “To dispute that makes no sense. The results are—”

“—ugly.”

“Unjust.”

“Did you know,” Bethany sighed. “That you have a _severely_ limited vocabulary?”

Justice did not respond. Bethany wiped her eyes.

“I am losing this body. You say nothing because it distresses you.” Justice tried to move his head, a strip of skin falling from his jaw.

“—no, don’t try that, _please—”_ she said, trying not to gag.

“—it is inevitable.”

The girl shuddered. “What will happen. When you can’t… keep yourself together anymore? _Please_ don’t shrug.”

Justice refrained. “I do not know,” he said. “I suspect I shall simply disperse. The idea is unnerving.”

 _Unnerving._ Her family would be shocked, Bethany thought, at the things that made her want to laugh. “I wouldn’t want to lose you,” she said, surprised that she said it. Surprised that it was true. “I’ve already lost father once.”

“I have never been your father,” the spirit said.

“No, but you _know_ him. Better than anyone. And you don’t sound like you _want_ to die. There’s enough death everywhere.”

“You are an interesting person.” Justice addressed her with his usual solemnity, but Bethany worried he would try to smile.

“If you had another body,” she mused, “Could you move between?”

“I do not sense any other carrion that would be practical.”

“No, silly.” Beth sighed, exasperated. “Could you use _me?_ I’m sure it would be nicer.”

“You would allow this?”

Bethany did not often look at Justice. She couldn’t. Not what he wore her father’s suppurating body. She wondered what it would be like to look at him through herself. She did look at him now. She reached out a hand, letting it rest briefly on one of his. She bit her lip. Let the blood fill her mouth with heat and copper-salt. “I’m sick of leaving people behind,” she said. “And…you make me want to do more than just run, or just be _normal._ I don’t want to go back to that. Not when I have a choice.”

The spirit did not speak for a long time. When he did, Bethany heard a sigh in it, and fainest flickerings of hope. “The risk would be considerable,” he said.

Bethany blinked. The tears had dried on her face.

“Hawkes,” she said, raising her chin. “Take risks.” 

 


	11. Familiar fragments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders is slow to trust. Fenris is awkward. Varania is a terrible cook. Snatches of fluff in Tevinter, though with a trigger warning for suicide references and thought patterns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to thank everyone for the lovely (and scarily prompt!) kudos and reviews. I never expected to enjoy writing this AU as much as I am, and the fact that it brings other people some level of that enjoyment makes me ridiculously happy. thinkfirst, StormDragon, GB, Ischemia, King_of_Hearts_129, nomadka2011, ophilias, Arkady, xxMad_Donaxx... thank you dearly. Kinkmeme OP, whoever you are, THANK YOU. And whoever commissioned [this](http://arkadyrose.deviantart.com/art/Justice-Bethany-425552009) incredible Justice!Bethany art (by the super talented arkady!): you made me cry. In a good way.

_1\. Respect_

Days had patterns. Anders knew this. The mind groped for them, alone in the dark or as part of a crowd. When there was nothing there, you made them up. He had counted grains of dirt in the wall of his cell at the Hold; the light tips in a cat’s fur; the breath-step-creak of a guard on the stairs. In the slave pens, he had made pictures out of other people’s scabs. 

The pattern of days in Fenris’s home were made of clean linens and a shirt. Snatches of sleep and dust eddies in the corners. Fenris leaving the mansion before it was light and coming back tense and foul-mouthed, usually with food enough for three. (There was, Varania told him, a kitchen. Somewhere.)

The siblings ate together, silent more than they weren’t. They asked him to join them. A pattern of alternating voices with the same request. It wasn’t a order. Anders always said no.

Varania studied, or she was out. Visiting, she said. Fenris was not very good at social obligations.

“This doesn’t surprise me.” The words slipped out. He clapped a hand to his mouth, pulse too fast.

“You’re _allowed_ to laugh at him, you know.” Varania’s smile was sympathetic. “Someone has to.”

Anders swallowed. “I—”

“—no need.” The smile changed, her lip curling. “And I’m really no better than my brother at keeping up appearances, but the point is in the effort. The magisters like a struggle. Tell me—is this right?” Varania, lip catching between her teeth, pressed a paper into his hands, covered in runes and glyphs, the handwriting cramped and lopsided across the page.

“What are you aiming for? Entropy? You need a wider arc…”

He showed her. His own handwriting no neater but moving it straighter lines. He sketched and spoke and wondered what the senior enchanters would think, seeing him refer to texts he’d slept on tripped over more than used. At least, that’s how it felt at the time.

Varania, faced with knowledge, beamed.

* * *

 

_2\. Respite_

“Here, mage.”

Anders had a room, now. It had started life in as disreputable a state as the rest of the mansion— _domus_ , he reminded himself. _Think in the right words. It was as much a sty as the rest of the domus_ —but time had filled the space with more clutter than dust. Bright bed covers, rescued from a cellar and only slightly gone to the moths. Shelves, and books to pile on them. More candles than he knew what to do with, and oil for lamps. There were large windows, and a large terracotta planter that Varania, gasping and swearing, had dragged in, because she thought they needed to grow elfroot, and might he make a start?

There had been days in his life when he would have given his mother’s name for a room, light, and clean clothes.

(Perhaps he had. He couldn’t remember it any more, after all.)

The patterns were starting to scare him.

“ _Anders_.”

Fenris stood in the doorway, head tilted, one hand outstretched. He looked annoyed. (Fenris always looked annoyed.) An edge gleamed.

“You’re giving me a _razor?”_

Fenris sighed. “You are human,” he said. As if that explained everything. “You…seem to need it.” He touched his own cheek with his free hand, looking self-conscious and cross.

Anders stared at him, and flushed, feeling the months of growth. The heat and weight and annoyance of it, all itch and dead skin and surprise whenever anything brushed his face. He mirrored the gesture. Fenris’s outstretched hand did not move.

“You know, I’m tempted to _keep_ the beard, if it makes you that twitchy.” Good. This was good. His voice didn’t crack. He did not cover his mouth. The room would still be his in the morning.

“I am not,” said Fenris, shifting from foot to foot. “Twitchy.”

The older mage laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was rusty and it hurt somewhere deep inside and seemed to stick halfway up his throat, but he laughed until he was bent double, hands on his knees and gasping for breath, tears in his eyes. Through it all, Fenris kept the razor out and level, eyebrows raised.

“Are you quite finished?”

Anders took the razor. A plain, silvered thing, all edge and line. It was heavy.

“Your desire to live is so obdurate, it is almost obscene,” said Fenris, quiet. “And even if you did not, I’ve taken enough of your choices.”

He left without another word, leaving Anders staring after him, razor clattering to the floor.

* * *

 

_3\. Reach_

When Anders does find them for dinner, he is clean-shaven. Not that first night. Not that first week or month. Brother and sister looked at him with near-identical quizzical expressions: narrowed eyes and slightly tilted smiles.

“We’re having soup,” Varania said. “It’s burnt.”

Anders sat down. 

 


	12. Surprises and sleepless nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which boundaries are tested, and Varania finds herself at the front of a crowd.

_1\. Insomnia_

Varania was a light sleeper. Some habits did not die. After the seventh week of waking up at odd hours, heart in her mouth, because of clattering, or pacing, or books being thrown across a nearby room, she gave up. 

“I’m going to write a book, Fenris,” she said, voice hoarse from sleep as she spoke through his half open door. “‘ _A Treatise on the Effects of Insomnia upon Tevinter Somniari.’”_

A sigh from Fenris’s room. “And the results?”

“Poor concentration, irritability, and eventual death by enraged family members.” She stepped inside, picking her way to her brother’s untouched bed. Fenris was leaning against the wall. She thought she saw him smile.

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum.”_

“If you’re not careful,” she said.

“Do you want to know why I bought Anders?” The words were bleak, and slightly muffled as Fenris let his forehead thud lightly against the plaster. “That man, over anyone else who shouldn’t be sold?”

Varania said nothing, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around then, letting her head pillow there. She watched the tense line of her brother’s shoulders. His hands curled and uncurled.

“He is a Circle mage from Ferelden,” he said. “Anyone can see that; I think he’s even said as much to you. He tried to escape at least once in a year. Often more, and he usually succeeded. But he would stop for too long, or a Templar would be working with another mage with particular tracking skill, or someone might turn him in for coin, or for fear. Whatever the reason, he was alway brought back. And escape attempts are not—he was not treated well. You saw his back, the first day.”

“Let-Fenris.” Varania bit her lip. “I don’t understand.”

“Why I know this?” He had turned to face her. “I could enter his dreams before I knew what I was doing. My _own_ dreams, from before we were freed, were full of images—snatches of his _life._ I have no idea why. Archon Lovias wrote something profoundly mystical and irritating about Fade connections, but has never provided anything practical.” He rested his head on his hands, voice hollowed out with weariness. “I am at a loss.”

“Those weeks last year,” Varania said, slowly. “When you started visiting the slave markets. I thought it was nightmares—”

“—nothing so simple.” When Varania reached out and let her hand rest on the middle of his back, Fenris did not push away. “I knew he was in Minrathous. Knew he had been captured. His dreams were—” a pause, a smile, unhappy smile. “Loud. I assisted. I’d do it again. But now that Anders is _here_ , sleep feels—”

Varania waited.

“Wrong. As if I am doing wrong.”

“ _Well_ ,” Another voice in the doorway, thin and creaky with sleep. “As the only healer here, I can say that this is all a bit impractical. And you must have gotten _some_ sleep, Fenris. You’d be hallucinating otherwise.”

Anders shook his head, sighing as he met identically unnerving stares in the vastly different faces. “One breach of privacy for another,” he said. “You’ve been stumbling about for weeks, and now _talking_?”

“And about you, no less.” Fenris sounded slightly dazed. Anders stood in the doorway, hair falling forward over his face, looking all together too long in a nightshirt. Variania, watching them both, bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“My ears were burning.”

“Clearly.”

“And you do beautiful things to nightmares. That has to be worth something.” Anders swallowed hard. Varania watched him push hair off his face, and not quite manage to look her brother in the eye. He settled for somewhere above her own left ear. “May I…Andraste’s tits. It’s _cold_ in the doorway. If we’re going to do this, can I at least come in?”

Fenris nodded. Anders stepped into the room and took up space against one of the few remaining patches of wall.

“Do what, exactly?” Varania asked.

The human mage groaned, candlelight and shadow turning his face remote. “Talk,” he said. “If I know what your brother knows, and your brother _knows_ that I know and _what_ I know in return—because I have to know _something_ , because if I didn’t then how in the Maker’s unsightly name do I know that your mother was called Charys, or that you were bought in Seheron—” a tight smile at that, watching as the siblings exchanged nervous looks. “And then, sleep.”

“You are unspeakably reductive, mage.”

“Good.” Anders shifted, managing to meet Fenris’s eyes across the room. “Someone has to be.”

* * *

 

_2\. Blood and empty space_

 

The world felt slower, the next day. Slow and blurred, Varania’s errands stretching out into missed ingredients, too many books, and the wrong sort of ink. She had watched Anders and her brother stutter around each other’s secrets until light came in through the windows and street vendors began the morning cry. Now, the girl tried to let the day’s clutter and noise wake her. There was a gladiator match after the noon bell, and she had wanted to see it. And it was bad form to fall asleep over—

—Denarius stalked out of the Magisterium, pushing a dark-haired woman before him until she tumbled in a heap. He kicked out, hard. “ _Useless_ girl.”

“Master, I know. I’m _sorry—”_ a crowd was gathering about their edges, and Varania was caught in the hush, in the forward movement. She stared. The girl wore apprentice robes. Not a slave. No crowd would have gathered for that, for all that public beatings were bad taste in the upper city. She was pale and spitting blood, but did not whimper as the magister landed another blow to her ribs. He hauled her up by the cowl, one-handed, Varania sensing a faint primal pull as he drew enough strength to manage the task.

 _Anders is a good teacher_ , she thought dimly. _I wouldn’t have been able to sense that a month ago. I should help. I should just step forward and_ help _, but he’ll see me. If he sees me—_

The apprentice’s eyes were wide, and very blue.

 _Hadriana_ , Varania remembered, suppressing a cry at another kick, and unable to stop herself from shuddering as the apprentice crawled forward to kiss Denarius’s boot.

_His main apprentice is Hadriana._

The master spat, and turned back to the ochre and columns of the Magesterium. Hadriana was left in a small circle of cleared space and a good deal of her own blood, the crowd parting around it with practiced skill.

Varania swallowed. She stepped forward.

“Can you stand?”

She bent and grasped the human woman’s wrist, tugging gently and shifting to catch her weight as Hadriana moved. Blue eyes met hers.

“You’re the liberati’s sister!” Hadriana said, coughing and hoarse. She sounded more than a little stunned.

Varania sighed. “It’s in the ears.”

“No. No, I didn’t mean it like—” the other girl groaned. “Let me start again. Please. You are Varania, are you not?” She managed to straighten, and stepped back gingerly, hand still caught in Varania’s own. “You are very kind.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t step in.”

"And do what, exactly?” Hadrina tried to smile; her lower lip split in the effort. “He is my master, and I angered him.” 

Another smile—open and bright, blood on her teeth. “Next time, it will take me longer to anger him. That is all.”

It was, Varania found, hard to look away from that smile.


	13. Unexpected strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varania flourishes

_1\. Youth and skill._

Varania liked to watch the gladiators. She enjoyed it for at least half the reason the rest of Minrathous did—reasons that gleamed and strained and shifted under oil and their own struggle—but there was more to it than that. She watched from the lower tiers, with the soporati and the laetens who had arrived late or forgotten which official to bribe. She could be quiet, there, and no one noticed if she did not cheer at the right moments, or if she turned away at a death.

She did not turn away often. Varania let herself be caught in the movement—imagined that her heartbeat matched each warrior as they grew or faltered in skill. Watching made her breath catch, but it also made her think of her own body. Her own interplay of skin and muscle, the line of spine and arm and leg. She was tall for elvhen, and strong. _If I could fight like this, the magic wouldn’t matter_ , she thought, and she blushed and the silliness and secrecy of it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hadriana, blue eyes fierce and voice low as she slid in next to Varania, was heedless of crowds and decorum and other people’s knees. She let her hand rest on the girl’s shoulder, laughing as Varania twitched.

“Hush. I’m watching.”

“As you wish, sweet.”

 _Sweet._ Varania shook her head, dragging her attention from the woman at her side—intent and leaning forward now, one slim hand resting on Varania’s leg—and back to the display from the arena. The warriors were from Hadriana’s house—laetens, but established and influential, family money writ large on their bodies. She should have known Hadriana would be here. These days, she usually was.

Denarius did not allow his apprentices days or hours of time, but Hadriana had started spending her snatches of minutes with her. Enough for Varania to know how the other woman took her wine, and her favourite scholar. Enough time for shared spaces. _In thanks_ , she’d said at first. She had never had a friend.

Hadriana’s thumb moved in slow circles, just above her knee. Varania bit her lip.

“You could learn, you know.” Soft words, close in her ear. “Denarius makes us all train. It’s not unheard of."

“How do you—”

“—people are easy to read.” Hadriana chuckled. “When you know how. And you’d have the arm strength for it.”

* * *

 

_2\. Aches and pains_

The first day Varania came home with a black eye and creaking steps, and bruises about the kidneys that Anders spent a good fifteen minutes seeing to, Fenris had wanted to set something on fire.

“That’s _my_ skill, brother. Leave it alone.” She smiled wearily up at him from the couch Anders confined her to. “And I’m _fine._ If I’d told you I was going to do this, you’d have scowled. I’d have backed out.”

“I’ve always thought,” Anders mused, lifting his hands from her lower back and sighing as magic sunk back into his skin, “That it was a _good_ thing to back out when people hit you with sticks. You can sit up. If you must.”

“Practice swords,” said Varania. “And it wasn’t as awful as I expected.”

“ _Wonderful_ ,” Anders drawled. “ So this is going to be a regular thing?”

“Whatis?” Fenris glared at her, one hand fisted in his hair. Anders flinched.

“I’m training.” Varania sat up, pushed her hair from her face. “Several of the magisters make their apprentices do physical work—you know that. Castor Aubericus still _does_ sword work, himself. It was easy enough to join. Better than skulking about in here.”

“I don’t—”

“Brother, you don’t _have to_.” The girl stood, smiling her thanks at Anders before stalking from the room. She managed the motion quite well, she thought. Even with the limp.

* * *

 

_3\. Learning how to fall_

The days that followed were ones of pain and grazes. Varania grew used to picking small stones out from her knees and elbows, and the strange, sweet spikes of pain that came from overstretched muscle. Sometimes, Castor sparred with her, and she understood her brother’s affection for this man, for all that he had been their master. He showed her wrist exercises, and how to sew weights into her armor. By the end of a season, Anders had mended four of her ribs. She grew sleek. Fenris shouted. He hugged her all the same. She learned to fight with hair in her eyes and dirt in her mouth—with sunburn and dust and Hadriana goading her with staff and tiny lightening spells.

Sometimes, Fenris watched, and he brought Anders with him. Anders, who played the good slave with bent head, and healed less and less of her by the time the twins were seventeen.

(”You both _hate_ it when you do that.” Their birthday. A public day. Fenris at the training yard, Anders kneeling at his feet for all to see. Varania, appalled, had faltered and nearly broken her jaw.

“The act is important.” Disgust in her brother’s voice. Not at her. They spoke in hushed exhaustion in their kitchen, Anders’s body gone tired and small as he hunched in a corner, not looking at either of them. “And Denarius was there. Didn’t you see?”

She smiled at that. She could not help it, even as her body ached and her heart twisted for her brother and the friend he did not know how to have. “I didn’t notice. I was too busy beating his apprentice.”)

There were mirror dances and stretches, and her brother’s confusion as she split the shoulders of clothes she had worn for years. And sometimes, on the best days, there was no need to speak.

* * *

 

_4\. Lapis and slate._

Forms and strikes, dust swirling up past their knees and sticking darkly to white cotton. In-out-forward-shift-impact- _smack-_ and-slide away. Strike. Block. Turn. Breathe.  There was a faint gasp of laughter as the shorter fighter slid back on the defence, out of reach of her opponent’s staff, but no words. Her own sword was heavier, now, but still simple and unadorned. Raw, almost, with none of the lustre and weight of the taller woman’s weapon. But she she held it strongly, bracing her body for blows that, even slowed down, shot threads of liquid protests through her wrists and arms and shoulders.  Effort pooled in her as she met blows. She matched. She struggled. She saw the opening and took it, the flat of her blade to an unguarded wrist. A push forward. A smile.

Hadriana tripped, and Varania caught her, arm at her waist, at her throat. Sword and staff in the dirt. She grinned. It felt like a gift. Blue eyes on hers. The blue of wet pigmant and quiet nights, bright in her flushed face. Varania felt the other woman’s throat move beneath her wrist—imagined the small bubble of air as she swallowed, the matched heartbeat that had them both breathing fast.

“See?” Hadriana whispered. “I was _right_.” She softened in her victor’s grip, smoothed out and pulled away, before catching Varania’s face between her hands.

She kissed her. 

 


	14. Demons and desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love suits Varania, but Fenris has his own demons to deal with. Literally. Anders, meanwhile, has reason to hope.

_1\. Power and peril_

Castor had been fascinated by demons.

It had, Fenris supposed, a lot to do with the old attack on his house: the ice and the allure and the strangeness of being rescued by an enslaved ten-year-old. Whatever the reason, his former master had taught him to read with detailed accounts of Pride and Sloth and Rage. He had warned Fenris—rather hopefully—of the perils the Fade could—no, _would_ offer him.

“Most Dreamers die,” he’d said. “Even here. Anything might come to you. Be on your guard.”

And so Fenris had learned of magisters who had desired Archons, who found themselves frozen and helpless while demons moved into their bodies and split their skin. He read about whispering that drove people mad, and so had not been surprised he heard someone else’s laughter, or furious advice, when he felt strong emotions of his own. 

Working with Denarius always drew a fascinated, invisible audience, who seemed to bicker amongst themselves about which magister wanted to kill the other more. There were other spirits, too—vague impressions of hope, or kindness, or bright curiosity—but they rarely whispered, and never when others were there. They were in the warmth he felt seeing Anders teach Varania how to light the household lamps with a thought; the urgency and surprise he felt whenever another magister came to him and asked his advice on how to free parts of their household; the satisfaction of an untangled nightmare.

When Denarius approached Fenris in the weeks since his sister and Hadriana were caught seen kissing in the Minrathous training yards (and three libraries; and the sennight market; and the fountain at the public square) Fade spirits lent no grace to his thoughts. The other man’s smile made him want to slough off his own skin.

_Or divest Denarius of his. That would be adequate._ He tasted phantom sulfur in his mouth and felt dark approval somewhere about his edges. Eyes closed, he imagined Rage demons spitting in anticipation.

They probably were. Fenris opened his eyes. Denarius still smiled.

“It is excellent how members of our households have decided to be friends,” Denarius said, seeming to laugh at his own coyness. “Hadriana is very dear to me. Love suits her.”

“Do not talk to me.”

Denarius’s smile did not falter. He kept in step with Fenris, close enough that the smaller man felt a crackle of weight and nearness at his back. “I hope you are being kind to your sister,” he said, poisonous.

_Use me, and he will never speak again. Burn his eyes. Let him feel every muscle in his throat close and burn away. With me, you can keep him concious. With_ _**me** _ _you can—!_

“Something the matter, Fenris.”

Jaw clenched, Fenris banished the whispers and tried not to look away from the magister’s face. “There usually is,” he said, managing a smile that had Denarius take a step backward. “I am giving your apprentice the benefit of very considerable doubt. Do not speak of my sister again.”

He walked away.

* * *

 

_2\. Cracks in the mirror_

Varania had just closed the front door behind her as Fenris approached the house. She was smiling, hair bright with jeweled pins that he vaguely remembered from an old tribute case: agate and lapis and silverite. Her fingers and toes, he saw, her painted to match, the effect turned sweet and more than a little strange when you remembered the sword calluses, the two crooked fingers from a break that had taken longer than usual to heal.

_She isn’t safe. She can’t be._ Fenris shook his head, trying to clear it, unsure—in this one thing—what thoughts were entirely his. _That woman is Denarius’s creature._ Whispers and something sharp stuck in his throat. _Varania_ _ **knows**_ _this. She—_

“—Fenris! Are you well?”

Varania had crossed the street to meet him, hands falling to his arms. “You look…”

_She endangers us_.

“I’m well,” Fenris managed, brusquely. “Well enough. Are you—”

“—yes.” Varania smiled again, though it was tinged with nervousness now, eyes shifting from his. “She has a few hours.”

_Are you angry with her because of a demon, or because you are unfair and jealous and paranoid?_

The thought was insidious and entirely Fenris’s own, though rather unfairly coloured, he decided, by Anders’s voice. He sighed. Varania looked terribly happy.

“Such luxury,” he said.

Varania wrinkled her nose. “You’re awful.”

“I know.”

This made them both smile. “I _am_ careful,” she said, slowly. “This is Minrathous. I will kiss anyone I want _where_ I want—” she laughed as Fenris blushed, and he wondered why he had never noticed that his sister could be brave.

“But she isn’t Denarius,” she continued. “And I’ve..” She swallowed. “Fenris, I’ve never felt _less_ like a slave.”

Fenris stepped back, nodding. “Go on,” he said. “If you only have scant hours, you should use them. Love—”

“Fenris?”

“Love suits you."

Her smile almost changed the words into something beautiful. Fenris took his headache inside.

* * *

 

_3\.  A time of chaos and change_

“You look—”

“—there is no need to say it.”

“You look like shit.”

Anders was staring at him, looking pale and drawn and forgetting, in his confusion, to be unnerved.

Fenris had made it to his room, but the door had taken too long to move. He had let himself sit by the doorway, keeping quiet and still.

“I will be fine,” he managed.

The healer shook his head. “You are so wide open to the Fade that I could feel it from the other end of the house.”

This made him smile. “My former master never had that sensitivity. He would be jealous, and fascinated.”

“Your former—”

“Castor Aubericus. He became my—what is the word you Fereldan use? My mentor, after we were freed. He was always _very_ interested when demons decided they wanted to keep us company.”

“You’re joking?”

“On which part?”

“…all of it?” Anders shook his head. “No. Sorry. The demons.”

“I am, as you say, open to the Fade. It tends to draw creatures just the way your Chantry fears. They can be…loud.”

“Loud,” Anders repeated, crouching down to Fenris’s level against the door.

“Extremely. And I have been ill-disciplined, of late. My—” he sighed. “My response to Varania’s entanglement has been—”

“—irrational?” Anders, Fenris saw with a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment, had bitten his lip to keep from smiling.

“And vivid,” Fenris agreed. “Rage demons are drawn to vivid."

Anders shuddered. “You do realise that you’re talking about demons and abominations as if they’re pesky children?”

“I’ve found children to be considerably more annoying.”

Anders sat, careful not to touch Fenris, resting his head against the door. “I can do something about the headache, if you want,” he said. “I’m afraid voices in the head aren’t my speciality.”

Fenris closed his eyes. “I would be grateful,” he said.

* * *

 

 

_4\. A helping hand_

The migraine came from a mess of tight blood vessels and knotted muscle at the base of the skull. Anders felt it churn through him as he worked, but it was only a mild annoyance. He wondered if Fenris could feel how much energy he drew—whether it showed in some strange, synaesthesic way known only to somniari or madmen. 

“I believe that most protective big brothers just yell a lot and make general asses of themselves,” he said, not liking the silence of his own head. “Summoning Rage demons seems excessive.”

Fenris’s eyes opened a crack. “Varania was my elder by a few minutes, or so I’ve been told. Thank you, mage.”

_Mage_. Anders resisted the urge to groan. “You’re one yourself, you know.”

“Not the way you are.” Fenris was still pale, his eyes still darted too quickly beneath the closed lids, but his jaw seemed looser, the mess of pain gone. “I cannot heal like you can, or summon fire or earth energy.”

“No,” Anders said, trying to dispel a bizarre image of Fenris training at Kinloch Hold. “You’d be an icer.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Nevermind.” Anders flushed.

“Regardless, none of the things I can do are really in the purview of a normal mage, and nothing _you_ do is in mine.”

Anders let his hand fall from Fenris’s wrist. “But you can undo what you did, with the blood magic.”

“Yes.” Fenris opened his eyes. “Yes, and I will. It might even be safe to attempt it after Funalis.”

Anders’s breath caught.

“A time of chaos and change,” Fenris said, and he had started to smile, pained and slow. “I am no expert, but that seems the right time for an escape, when you want to _stay_ that way.”

“Less than three months,” Anders breathed, watching in fascination as Fenris flinched at something only he could hear.

“Yes, mage. Dream up your plans, and distract me with them. Sleep can be dangerous at times like this. I would prefer to avoid it.”

His smile broadened, sudden and bright, before he hid it behind a hand. “Don’t tell me you haven’t already worked out how you would sneak from this house, at least.”

* * *

 

_5\. Memories and dust_

Varania had been pliant in her arms, sweet and lithe and every touch a little awed, a little stunned—as if she had expected one or both of them to disappear.

The longer they hadn’t, the fiercer she was. It was always like that. Always a little longer and a little fiercer, something twisting sharp and sure, deep inside, whenever the elvhen girl managed to leave.

Walking home in the dark, lips swollen and skin feeling as if it might be sparking against the night air, Hadriana smiled.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, my girl.”

Needles at her scalp. Her throat and her wrists and beneath her nails. Needles up her spine and behind her knees. She whimpered.

“I have left you to your own devices in this,” Denarius said. “They have been charming, diverting devices. They have made the little wolf howl and bite at himself, and all of this has been _very_ amusing.”

His hands were on her shoulders. She should have known he would come up from behind. It was his favourite tack. She gasped as the pain shifted, sliding beneath her skin like a hot knife. He had never flayed her. Hadriana had never doubted that he could.

“But amusements end,” he said. His tone was soft, ruminative. She doubled over. “The girl is trash and belongs to my enemy, dear girl. Speak.”

“M-master, she is—she was—”

_She was kind. She is beautiful and she is kind._

“You wanted her as a _gift_ , Hadriana.” His hand was at her throat. His real, cool, large hand, long fingered and heavy with rings. “That is it, of course. You wanted her as a gift for me.”

Hadriana tried to let herself fall limp. The magic tightened and burned.

“The little fox girl,” Denarius breathed. “With her sad eyes and flickering magic.” He shook her. “But she doesn’t trust me, and you know I don’t deal well with weaklings—”

“—I-I-I-she is ready for you, Master. I got her ready for you.” Hadriana closed her eyes and let the tears fall, let them choke her voice. “She trusts _me_ ,” she whispered. “And she is strong, now. In body more than magic. She would make a perfect vessel. My gift. To you.”

Denarius stilled.

Handriana was prepared for the fall. She took it bonelessly, gasping as her cheek struck the stone. The magic withdrew from her body like a thousand tiny splinters.

“A vessel.” Denarius smiled. “From the sister of a man who needs no lyrium. _Clever,_ Hadriana.”

She rolled over, staring up at the man who had promised to see her into the ranks of the magisterium. The Archon’s cousin, who could use lightning like no mage she had ever met. He met her eyes, and smiled.

“If you’re good, Hadriana,” he told her, stepping back so she might climb to her feet, “You can give her some new memories of your own.”

  
  



	15. Interlude II: Lothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While our heroes languish in Tevinter, Bethany fights crime. Set in the days and weeks following Ostegar, for all your canon-crossover needs.

_Lothering, 930 Dragon._

 

The Blight had come to Ferelden.  And it spread, slick and screaming, through the Wilds. People came in to the village every day speaking of the king’s battlefield as a charred ruin, where a body burnt if it was lucky, and was eaten otherwise. Bandits clogged the roads as people tried to leave, and it seemed like Healer Miriam made extra beds out of anger, air, and sparrows' nests. Leandra packed and unpacked, hands quick and breathing panicked.

“I am _not_ ,” she told anyone kind enough to offer Mistress Hawke and her quiet daughter space in their cart or on their horses out of Lothering, “Leaving without all my children.”

And no one was cruel enough to say that those children were probably dead.

Bethany helped where she could, and did her best to ignore the restless shifting beneath her skin, the whispers in her ear that had been part of life for the past two years. She would not reveal herself now. Not at the last. If they survived, only to have their home reject them for apostates, Leandra would not recover.

 _Unjust_.

“Oh, hush.”

She talked to herself more, these days. It was, Carver had told her, one week on leave and a full three inches taller, according to their mother: “Better than all that crying.” (She had thrown the mending at his head, he had hugged her. She hadn’t seen her brother for a year, now.)

Bethany knew she did it, knew it was probably a way to keep herself from being lost in feelings that were more and more her own, but stronger and savage and ridiculously unsubtle. Justice, as she had known him: Justice-who-had-used-her-father, he had disappeared. But she felt him, deep in her blood and heavy at the back of her mind, and in the itch that broke over her skin when she thought of the bandits. His old instructions guided her in the Fade, and she tasted ozone and bruised grass when she worked now. A thunderstorm. She did not know if there was anyone to _hear_ when she told him (told herself) to watch, and to wait, to keep safe for a stronger future. But it helped.

And there were worse mad habits.

Bethany did what she could. She helped Alison with her traps, managing to smile two or three from Old Barlin, who had always made Marian laugh. She worked under the eye of the Reverend Mother, mostly with the smaller and the messier children who Hannah, for all her good intentions, found overwhelming. They was scared, they wailed, and they couldn't pay tithes. Leliana helped. The strange, Orlesian lay-sister with her hair ragged at her shoulders could hold small groups captive for hours, with a story and a smile. But these past days had seen her pale and pacing, her lips chapped and spilling words that no sense, about blighted roses. She took to staying up at Dane’s, which Bethany had always avoided. It was not the sort of place people went to stay safe. People came screaming about Darkspawn. About a farm-hold destroyed by one grey-skinned giant, caged just over the bridge. Her mother waited.

Bethany walked. And she saw that Lothering was right about the giant in a cage. He walked, back straight, with Mother Hannah’s meager compliment of Templars edging im around him, a shrunken forest of swords.

“ _Shok ebasit hissra.”_

“No more filthy words from you, Qunari.” The Templar who spoke was muffled by his helmet, but he stuttered. The Qunari did not respond, merely opening the door of the metal cage and stepping inside, closing it after him.

“ _Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Marras shokra—”_

Someone drove a spear in through the bars, catching the man in the thigh. The shock of it made Bethany fall back from her position by the bridge, made her cover her mouth and bite the side her hand to keep from crying out, to keep the staticky, cold shock of rage from leaking out of her. _Templars. Not with Templars. Unjustunjustun_ _ **just.**_

“ _ **Anaan essam Qun**_.” The Qunari’s last words were a roaring, tumbling exhale that all the men fall back. Dark blood seeped, but he did not stagger or even lean against the inside of the cage. Templars scattered.

Bethany, soaked in sweat and shaking, moved to the cage.

“You _let_ them,” she managed, looking around to see if anyone else had followed the commotion. “ _Why?”_

The man gazed at her, eyes level, face of a a deep contempt. “I committed the crime. The punishment is beyond my hands. It does not matter.”

“No crime would warrant this.” Bethany examined the bars. Laid a hand on the steel. She could force this open. She knew it. There were no wards, and it would be easy, a simple pull. Fat blue sparks crawled across her hand.

“Ware, bas! Saarebas.” Bethany jumped.

“What did you call me?”

“What you are, dangerous thing.” The Qunari loomed. “I wish no help from you.”

“I—”

“—see what I have done before you judge me,” he said, glaring. “Your home has done so. _You_ do not fit here.”

Bethany stared at him, but the Quanri, while never looking away from her, seemed not to see her any more. The air about her filled with his chant.

* * *

Once she knew what to listen for, over the coming days, the Qunari’s crime was everywhere. Seven people. Slaughtered. Including the children. Even Leandra knew, shuddering as she considered what kitchen knives they might pack. “You never know what can happen, Bethany. So many dreadful things.”

“But did he really _do it_?”

Her mother looked up, blue eyes bleak. “Anyone could. It doesn’t matter.”

“ _Mother_ —”

“—no, darling girl.” Leandra shook her head. “Not now. I can’t talk now. Your sister and brother could be home any minute. I need—” she shook her head, turning to the kitchen things again, eyes sliding away from her daughter as if she had disappeared.

Hurt and love and fear shifted through her, inchoate and savage. Swallowing hard, Bethany left their cottage, walking fast and hard to Lothering’s edges. She would see the farm-hold herself.

* * *

“It’s…that’s impossible. _One_ man?”

Her words filled the small space. Chocked and strangled and, as she swallowed bile, slightly slurred. The bodies had been moved. There were tracks of blood on the floor. Blood and viscera and other unspeakable things that had flies blowing thick and fast. There were dishes in the kitchen sink, the crockery slimed over and faintly desolate to the small bit of her mind that cared about housekeeping. Lonely plates and drag marks on the floors and window-ledges grown thick with blood. Freshly dug graves a few feet away. Seven of them, and three very small. She remembered the Qunari’s slow, sure walk into his own cage. Felt her own blood stir and her bones ache and the faintest trace of another’s voice.

_I don’t understand._

“Oh, neither do I,” she said. She closed her eyes.

_It’s not right._

Alone in the dying house, Bethany laughed. “Which part?”

* * *

 

Walking back, she saw that more people seemed to clogging the bridges, heading to the King’s Highway. Walking towards Lothering felt as if she moved against a tide. Bethany lowered her head and turned her shoulder, moving slowly past familiar houses and new children, until she broke through into empty space full of road dust and the Qunari’s chanting.

It was fainter now. Looking at him, she saw that his skin seemed even greyer, heavy bruising under his eyes and the blood from the old spear now thick and dark over his leg, staining ragged trousers and boots.

“You killed all those people.”

Bethany hadn’t known she would speak to him again, but the words slipped out, shocked and small. “I saw the hold.”

“I never denied this thing.” The Qunanri sighed. “Now you see your justice being served.”

“ _My_ justice?” Bethany laughed, moving closer to the cage. “I…I would _heal_ you. Heal that leg wound, so it would take you longer to die.”

The caged man tilted his head slightly to the side. “Vindictive healing. Vengeance in pretty words. Every day, I learn anew that I am with the bas.”

“Move aside.”

The unfamiliar voice made Bethany flinch. Turning, she saw a motley group heading towards the cage. A man in battered scale armor, tufts of sweat-darkened blonde hair sticking up through his helmet. A woman wearing feathers and a sneer and a set to her chin that made Bethany’s stomach lurch. Another with long, heavy hair as dark as Carver’s or Marian’s, and eyes a warm brown a few shades darker than her own, her nose long and at least twice broken. She wore Circle Robes, which brought the purples and blues of her black eye. A large mabari, who would be the twin to Marian’s own if not for the ragged left ear, loped at her side. The fourth human was—

“—Sister Leliana?”

“Bethany!”

The chantry sister smiled at her, but the expression had a distracted air, eyes darting back to the Circle Mage, who was staring at her. So was the woman wearing all the feathers.

“We’re here on Warden business, I’m afraid.” The Circle mage’s voice was brisk, but faintly apologetic. “You should probably—look here, do I _know_ you?”

“Solona,” said Leliana, slowly. “This is Bethany Hawke. A good girl.”

“This ‘good girl’ keeps interesting company,” the other woman, faint curiosity lurking behind the drawl. “How long have you harbored—”

“Andraste’s ass, that’s my _cousin_.” Solona did not seem to hear the words going on behind her, moving forward to cup Bethany’s cheek. “I always knew I had one. Well, three, actually.”

“Was it hard to keep count?” The man’s voice, when he finally spoke, was a light tenor, and he seemed to smiling, though it was hard to tell through all the mail.

“It was all theoretical. Tower. Prison. Remember?”

“Father said they took you,” Bethany blurted, still aware of the Qunari, of the other stranger’s overbright, narrowed eyes. And she was beginning to sense something else. A darkness. A heaviness that hung in a pall about her cousin, as well as the smiling man. She could taste something foul in the back of her throat. "Aunt Revka brought you to visit when you were tiny--when we were in Denerim. but the Templars caught you. Father cried. What are you _doing_ here? No one ever—and you said you were here for—” _Wardens. Everyone’s saying the Wardens killed King Cailan. Left the world for dead at Ostegar._ Bethany bit her lip.

“—The Grey Wardens, yes.” Solona’s jaw tightened. “The Wardens don’t care if you’re a mage or not. Everyone’s blood is the same in the end.” There was something weighted in the words. Something that made the unnamed woman smirk and the man stifle something that was half-gasp, half laugh. Solona turned to the Qunari. “The same goes for you, and your crimes. I have the key to your cage.”

Bethany watched, bemused horror mixing with the sweat that chilled on her skin, as the Qunari shifted. “I confess,” he said. “I did not think the priestess would part with it.”

“She agreed to release you into my custody,” she said, and smiled quickly over her shoulder at Leliana, who was still staring at Bethany’s cousin as if she was a statue come to life.

The Qunari did not smile. “So be it,” he intoned. “Release me, and I will follow you against the Blight.”

“He killed _children_ ,” Bethany whispered. “I..I saw—”

“He did?” Solona sighed heavily. “Perhaps he will find atonement.” She moved to the cage door, working the lock. “This Blight is…it’s unspeakable, cousin. You should leave here.”

“I know,” Bethany said. “We are. Mother is—she’s waiting. Marian and Carver were at Ostegar.” She smiled faintly even as Solona grew even paler and the man swore behind her. “Those are your _other_ cousins.”

“Ostegar was—” Solona shuddered. “Don’t try and—don’t wait too much longer. We leave tonight.” The cage door swung open, and the Qunari stepped out. He limped heavily.

“My thanks, but enough of this,” he said. “I am Sten of the Beresaad. If we are to go, we should move forward.”

Solona looked pained. “He’s right. We should, though I don’t want to just leave you here.”

“I am coming to realise this is something of a problem for you.” A smile and a shake of the head from the feathered woman. “But people _do_ survive very well without your assistance, Warden. Alistair is the anomaly.”

Solona groaned. “Morrigan, this is different.”

“No,” Bethany said. “Your friend is right. We’ll be fine. I’ll get mother out myself if I have to. And you’re a _Warden_ , that means…I don’t know what it means, but you have more to worry about than my family. _I_ don’t.” She looked from Solona to the Qunari—to Sten of the Beresaad—and back again. “But tell me, are you a good healer?”

“Dead rubbish,” Solona answered, bemused. “But Morrigan is—”

“—then let me do something first.” Bethany turned to Sten. “I saw what you did. I still don’t know if it was right to cage you that way.”

“Your opinions are not relevant, bas-saarebas.”

“No, they’re not.” Bethany swallowed. “But there is _nothing_ just in you dying of infection when your life could be used up saving others,” she cleared her throat, wondering at the faint echo behind her own words that had Morrigan tilting her head in renewed speculation and made the man take a step backward. She tried to breathe. Her own voice, small and soft and very tired, came with the next words. “Will you let me heal you?”

Sten looked down at his leg. The movement needed to leave the cage had set it bleeding again, but slowly. He nodded.

Setting her hand just above the wound, letting her eyes fall closed as she searched for the right mix of energies to will the wound closed, to burn out death from the blood, she felt safe and strange and powerful, the thunderstorm bright in her mouth.

When the work was done, she straightened and smiled. “Good luck, cousin.”

Solona Amell hugged her, and if she had thought she saw blue cracks in the younger girl’s skin as she had asked to heal the Qunari, they were not in evidence now. She was a perfectly ordinary girl in her arms. Face full of perfectly ordinary anxiety as Solona pulled away. “Careful as you leave,” the Warden said. “There are bandits everywhere, and we haven’t been able to do anything about them.”

“Oh,” said Morrigan, laughing as Bethany nodded and backed away. “I suspect your cousin shall manage well enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you choose to be obtuse,” the Witch of the Wilds murmured as Bethany turned and walked quickly away, after a swift exchange of smiles with Leliana, “‘Tis not my place to educate you.”

* * *

 

She should go home. Bethany knew she should return to her mother. She should get as far away from dangerous people who changed the world as she could, and never look back. Carver and Marian might have returned.

But the sky had darkened well into evening, and people were no longer straining at the entryways to the village. People were going to their beds, to their pallets, to their patches of earth. The world was hushed. It was the sort of hour where shapes all melted and blended into grey. Even bandits needed to sleep.

The bandits had bled Lothering for weeks. And Bethany felt powerful, and safe, and strange.

That was how Bethany found herself at the King’s Highway, staff in hand. She watched as _piles_ of men sifted and stood, picking their way out from behind overturned carts and tents decorated ( _desecrated by_ —”Shut up, you. Not now!”) other people’s lives.

One of the smaller men stepped out in front of the rest. His eyes glinted. She picked out a beard and smile in the gloom.

“Well now,” he said. “ _You’re_ a bit of pretty company.”

Bethany sighed, letting her arms spread loosely at her side. Blue and gold fire startled to kindle in her palm, in the eye of her staff. “You need to _leave_.”

“Oh, no. Not us.” Rustles and bowstrings and the distinct creaks and popping of readied crossbows. She did not move as a silent body came up behind her, pressing a blade against her throat. “We like it here. Good road, this. Needs a good deal of upkeep.”

Bethany closed her eyes.

“Boss.” A slow, hoarse voice somewhere in front of her. “Boss, I don’t think—”

“Shut it.”

“No, he’s right.” Bethany smiled. She felt like she was sinking into herself. Like something fierce and wild and terrifying was poised to take her place. Something that, just faintly, echoed with a father’s outrage at the sound of the men threatening her, and the edge of metal on her skin. “You’re vile, and evil, and pray on people’s fear. You _don’t_ think.”

When she spoke, it wasn’t with her own voice, and she reveled in it. She tore at the Fade, and the world was all blue light and rage and the knowledge that, if they left tomorrow, there would be no more bandits here.

 

(Image copyright 2013 [Arkadyrose](http://arkadyrose.deviantart.com/art/Justice-Bethany-425552009))

 


	16. Manes exite paterni!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ghosts of my fathers, go forth!" 
> 
> Funalis approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dodgy Latin alert. My take on the Tevinter version of Funalis/All Souls is a rather unholy amalgamation Lemuria, a Roman festival of the dead (this is where the beans come from--just ask Ovid), and the Greek Anthesteria. It has been a few years since my Classics degree. If anyone with better Latin notices any truly distracting errors (besides the fact that Somniari should probably take Somniarus as singular--I'm blaming that on in-game Tevene) please let me know.

_1\. Family history_

Anders dreamed of fires and masks. Wine poured from fountains and stained the streets, while music skirled about and tangled about the crowds, tripping them to make them laugh, and howl, and weep. There were bodies and smoke and bronze dragons whose shadows marked couples and groups entwined on the street corners. Skin. Mouths. Too many limbs. Funalis in Tevinter.

“I’m afraid,” said one of the bronze dragons, “That your imagination is getting away from you. Where do you think you are? Antiva?”

In the dream, Anders groaned.

“I thought you were trying not to do this.” Fenris had not been a voice in the dark for a long time. And if he ever noticed that his reluctant owner came to breakfast bleak-eyed after Anders had woken sick from nightmare, neither said a word.

That was before Fenris had spoken openly of escape.

“I am.” The dragon shaped around Fenris’s voice wrenched itself from its wall mount, tail lashing and then curling about its front legs with all the dignity of an offended cat. “But this dream is both recurring and  _loud_.”

The dragon shifted, stones cracking under its weight. Anders could see his reflection in its side, looking blurred and younger than what he knew actually faced him in the mirror. He sighed.

“I stayed inside last All Souls,” he said. “So did you.”

“I dislike holidays.”

_You dislike everything—oh, shit. He probably heard that._

The bronze dragon shimmered, and Fenris stood in its place. He was trying not to smile.

“I like quiet. And a proper image of the festival will help you when you leave.”

The music changed first. Its lively six-to-eight measure smoothing out into something slower and sadder. Naked bodies were swathed in in ochre-yellow and grey, and moved to circle makeshift altars. The air was thick with the smells of bread and honey and blood. The blood and the wine remained.

Anders watched, feeling something stutter deep inside at the thought of the magic that moved freely about him. “ _When_  I leave,” he repeated, slow and soft. He could almost taste the words.

Fenris nodded. “As I promised,” he said gravely. “You will escape, I will destroy the blood I took from you. Though I would…”

Anders never said Fenris’s name if he could avoid it. It stuck sharp, a word he was not meant to have. Watching the elf stumble, he found that he still couldn’t say it, left helpless as the other mage trailed off. He sighed, waiting.

“I would avoid Ferelden,” Fenris said. “There is a Blight. Even the Magesterium cannot dismiss it any longer. Communication with Orzammar has been completely cut off.”

Anders winced. “The Chantry still has my phylactery, you know,” he said, with a thin smile. “Perhaps a darkspawn will break it.”

“That is—”

“—strangely appealing.” Anders shook his head, watching the play of expressions that crossed his reluctant owner’s face. “I don’t know what to think,” he admitted.

“Think about what you will do once you reach the port,” said Fenris. “That will be the hardest part.”

“I’d go back to Teraevyn, if I could,” Anders said, slowly. “That was a good place.”

“I’ve only ever seen it with your eyes.” Fenris moved a hand, and the funereal festival at their backs turned to sunshine on sandstone and deep blue glass that made Anders catch his breath—and, as a cat materialised around his ankles, tabby striped and orange-eyed—made him laugh.

“The grand magister never leaves the capital?”

“I was born in Seheron. You already know that.” Fenris’s words were abrupt, and he stared at the ground. “At least, that is what is in the purchase records. Our mother refused to talk about it.” He looked up, jaw set. “Which was made easier, I imagine, because her tongue had been cut out.”

Anders flinched. The world was showing him Minrathous streets again, full of Funalis music and the milling crowd, which seemed to be throwing small, clattering objects behind them as they walked. The cat remained.

One of the grey-clad figures turned around, showing a dark-skinned elvhen woman, full lipped and fine-boned, her green eyes huge in a tired, drawn face. A scar ran through one eyebrow and another spidered across her jaw and cheek, its line broad and slightly purple, twisting the right side of her face. It looked, the healer thought, like a scald mark, years old.

“When I learned to read, I learned about a sect from Seheron known as Fog Warriors. They were, by all accounts, as brave as they were secretive.” A smile for that, brief and weary. “When I learned that imagination was no longer something that would get you locked in a small, dark space for three days without water, I imagined that my mother had been one of these. That, once captured, she had performed the mutilation herself, so as not to betray their secrets. Master Aubericus called her Charys. She answered to it.”

The woman turned away, melting into the crowd. Fenris’s eyes were unfocused, and his hands were cupped together, holding something Anders couldn’t quite catch.

“Castor’s household moved to Minrathous before we were two,” he said. “And now that I am freed—” another smile, this one strained and only lasting a breath. “I find that I don’t know how to leave.”

Anders stepped forward. Distance was a tricky thing, here. It took him at least ten steps to reach the somniari, when it looked as if they were only a pace or two apart.

“It’s addictive, I’ve found.” Anders said. “The travel. After all this living in my head you might have a taste for it.”

“I’m unsure if it’s good or mortifying you can joke about that,” Fenris said, still looking at his cupped hands.

Anders snorted. “Coping mechanism,” he said, looking down. Seeing what Fenris held made him step back again, fast.

“What in the name of Andraste’s long unlaundered vestments are you  _holding?_ Are those—”

“—beans, yes.” Fenris looked met his eyes. “Another Funalis tradition, along with wine and sacrifice.”

“This is a dream,” Anders sighed. “So I’m just going to say it. You are all  _insane_.”

 _“Haec ego mitto; his redimo meque meosque fabis,”_ Fenris intoned, voice cracking a little with slow laughter at Anders’s expression. “I send these; with these beans, I redeem me and mine. __Manes exite paterni.__ ” He opened his hands, scattering the smooth, black shapes at their feet. “Even my sister, and her appalling taste in women.”

“Fenris.”

The landscape paused. No music played. People were reduced to faint grey and yellow blurs. Fountains stopped mid-flow. Fenris’s own expression didn’t change. It didn’t need to.

Anders swallowed, reached out, and took the elf’s hands in his. Fenris twitched, but did not pull away.

“Knowing you, and your sister,” said Anders, surprised, somehow, that he could feel a pulse under his fingers, feel the warmth of skin and the edge of a thumnnail and tensile strength in the other man’s wrists, “Your mother would be  _just_ that brave.”

The world lurched. Sound flared and died. And Fenris was gone, leaving Anders in a rapidly disintegrating landscape, his own thoughts racing and doubling back and creating new images for other dreams.

 _Oh._ Anders thought, amused.  _He must have woken up._

The healer turned over in his sleep.

* * *

 

 2.  _Tests of strength_

 

> _My love._
> 
> _Meet me by the eastern dock. Tonight, if you can. I’ll wait as long as I’m able, but be quick. Someone is going to hurt your brother. I’ll tell you everything when you see me. Dear heart, I know how you can save him._
> 
> _H._

Hadriana had slipped her the note that morning, tucked into a book she made a show of returning to Varania outside one of the larger scriptoria, her bruised face showing up starkly under the midday sun.

Now, Varania tried not to curl into herself as she waited on one of the eastern dock landings, wind plucking at her hair and shift and making her coat flap loudly through a night world of empty space. There was a practise sword strapped to her back, and she wore a knife in a wrist sheath, but the now-familiar weight held little comfort, with her lover’s words roiling about in her head.

_Someone is going to hurt your brother._

She saw Hadriana’s staff, first. The apprentice rarely carried one, but now amber witchlight heralded the mage, the staff itself of a pale, gnarled wood and smooth horn that Varania couldn’t place. She ran towards the other woman, trying to keep her breathing even, her eyes open.

“What  _happened_?” she asked. “Your face—and that  _letter_ —such a perfectly awful, cryptic letter. Hadriana, please—”

“— _hush.”_ Hadriana covered the other woman’s mouth with her free hand. “It’s all right. I’m all right.”

Varania raised both eyebrows.

“Well, no.” Hadriana smiled grimly. “That’s a lie. I’m not all right at all. I crossed Denarius, as you can see.”

Muffled cries beneath her palm. Hadriana swallowed.

“And,” she said thickly. “Your brother is marked for trouble. That’s how I got this face. I overheard, and he was certain I’d tell you, of course, and—”

“—but you  _are_ telling me,” Varania cried, managing to pull away from her lover’s hand. “If he—”

“If Magister Fenris died and you knew I could have helped you stop it, would you have forgiven me?”

Varania blinked. “Help  _me_  stop it? I’m just—”

Hadriana kissed her, urgent and sweet, hands hard on her shoulders. “You could be  _incredible_ , if you wanted.”

“Hadriana, now is  _not_ the time to be nice to me.” Varania glared, tears thickening her voice and sliding, unchecked, down her face. “Not after scaring me like this. What, exactly, do you know?”

“I know a way to make you so strong even Denarius would be wary of you,” she said.

Varania laughed, harsh and unhappy. “Stop it. Tell me what’s really wrong.”

“You’d want it, though, wouldn’t you?” Hadriana tightened her hold on Varania’s shoulders. “If you could? To be strong enough that you could protect your brother?”

“Of  _course_ I would,” she said, staring up into frantic blue eyes. “Love, you’re sc—”

“—I know.”

Hadriana knew where the other woman kept all of her knives. Her hand sliding from Varania’s shoulder, she let it move slowly to the wrist sheathes, drawing out one fine, narrow blade.

“Hadri—”

Closing her eyes, Hadriana gripped the blade hard, letting it sink into her fingers and palm. Power flared, and Varania fell at her feet.

Denarius, when he emerged from the shadows five minutes later, gathered the elvhen woman in his arms as gently as he might a child.

“Well done, dear girl. Time to go home.”


	17. Lyrium, names, and nightfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders surprises Fenris, Varania sends a letter, and Funalis finally arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This one is dark. Very dark. Serious torture and rape warning between sections 3-6. 
> 
> Knowing this was coming made it no easier to write.

_1\. Uncertainty_

“It appears our womenfolk have abandoned us.”

Fenris scowled in his own doorway. Denarius stood on the threshold, looking exasperated and more than a little tense around the eyes.

“Denarius.”

“Your sister.” Denarius sighed. “She _is_ the reason you and your household—” a small laugh at this, a nod to Anders’s white face in the doorway’s shadow— “Spent much of this morning scouring markets and bullying the guards? You were overheard, I’m afraid. Something…yes. ‘If she’s gone and taken off with that grasping apprentice’—”

“-has she?” 

Denarius took a step backward. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Has Varania,” Fenris said, with great care, “Taken off with your grasping apprentice?” He closed his eyes, hated his voice’s small betrayal as he faltered. “It has been three days.” 

“Oh yes.” The older magister passed a hand across his face. When Fenris met his eyes again, Denarius’s smile was rueful. “You see, Hadriana _did_ leave a note,” he said. “The ridiculous girl.” 

Slowly, Denarius moved closer, edging into the doorway so that Anders had to press against the wall, and Fenris had to look a good deal father up to meet his eyes. “She seems quite overcome,” Denarius continued, sighing. “She’ll never come into her own that way. Not that any of this would make sense to you, of course—you’re barely more than a romantic child—”

“—shut up.” 

“ _Precisely.”_ Denarius shook his head, one hand falling to idly pet Anders’s hair. With the other, he reached into his robes and drew out a small scroll. “Here. Take this.” He looked down. The paper was flecked with rust. His nails were stained at the beds; so was his left sleeve. “Oh, and forgive the blood.” He smiled, abstracted. “New project.”

Anders shuddered. 

Fenris did not move. “Take your hand off him.” 

Denrius’s hand moved slowly down to cup the back of Anders’s skull, before dropping away. “He’s in fine condition,” he said, pressing the scroll into Fenris’s hand. 

“Varania gave no word,” Fenris said, stepping in front of Anders. 

“I imagine she thought you’d react—well, like this.” Denarius shook his head as a muscle twitched in Fenris’s jaw. “You’re not the welcoming sort.” 

“Get out.” 

“Just so, Fenris. Just so.” 

Fenris slammed the door.

* * *

 

_2\. Love and letters_

> _Dear Fenris._
> 
> _I am well, and I’m sorry to vanish that way—if I’d had it my way, I would have stopped to tell you, but we had to leave tonight._
> 
> _I’m with Hadriana. I’m sure you know this. (And that you’re scowling, stop it!). She has been desperately unwell — why do you think I’ve been so worried, lately? -- and has an Uncle in Perivantium who is also a healer. D has actually given her leave—can you imagine? It’s been that bad. She begged me to come, and you know I’ve always wanted to travel. Think of it as a holiday from my fretting, though I’ll still do so from afar. You’ll see me at Funalis. I promise._
> 
> _I do love you, Leto. Keep well. And I’m sorry._
> 
> _VARANIA._

Fenris threw the small scroll across his room. Anders winced. 

“Look at it,” Fenris ordered. “It doesn’t sound like her at all.”

Anders had to search the room to find it, eventually picking it out from a pile of discarded robes. He unfurled it gingerly, squinting in muted light that moved reluctantly past the window-grime. “It reads like she still has her peculiar relationship with commas,” he ventured. “She calls you Leto. No one else does that—”

“—no one else would do it and live.” 

“And it _is_ a bit sickening,” Anders continued over the top of him. “But that is sort of the point of breathless love notes.”

“This is not funny,” Fenris sighed. 

“It is, just a little.” Anders sat in the chair Varania usually took in her brother’s room. “She sounds _happy,”_ he said, wondering at the urge to make his voice gentle. “Manically apologetic, maybe, but also _happy_. She’s been happy since the first time she came home with a broken collarbone from lifting that damn sword. She’s in love with a pretty girl who loves her back. It’s a good feeling.” 

“Which you know well.” 

Anders’s smile twisted. “Yes,” he said. “I’m pretty good at falling in love.” 

Fenris glared at him. “From what I recall, it was appalling and destructive.” He paced, hand tangled in his hair, and Anders pushed down bile. 

“Just because you’ve seen large parts of my life,” he managed, hating that his voice had thickened and that his hands shook in front of him, “Doesn’t mean you know _anything_ about what goes on in my head. Or your sister’s.”

“ _That_ is obvious.” He didn’t look at the other mage. Did not loose the deathgrip on his hair. Anders wondered absently if he ever woke up with more of the stuff on his pillow than in his scalp. 

“She’ll be back for your big Tevinter death festival,” he said. “It says right here.”

“And you’ll be gone,” Fenris said. He was breathing slowly and heavily, as if he was trying to trick his body into stillness. Anders looked him. Felt the small weight of the paper in his hands, and the over-warm touch of Denarius’s hand over the back of his neck. He had reeked of old blood. Traces of it still lingered around the scroll, showing as browning smudges at its edges. His own scar—the slave scar—stood out in a thin, silvery line on his cupped hand. 

“Not until I see Varania,” he said.

Fenris did stop, then. He stared. 

“What—”

“—she’s my friend,” Anders snapped, defensive. “I have precious few of those.” 

Fenris slumped against the far wall. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You would stay a slave, for even a few days more than you had to?” 

Strange, clumsy sentences. Wide green eyes fixed on his face. Anders found that he was smiling. “Well,” he said. “It’s my choice, isn’t it?” 

“Anders,” Fenris managed, shaking his head. “You would have made a _terrible_ slave.” 

The healer swallowed. “Actually,” he said. “I think you know that I’d have broken. Fast. Thing is, there was this interfering magister-elf who kept _talking_ to me. He has a lovely sister. I’m worried about her.” 

“You said she was happy, mage.” 

“Doesn’t mean I’m not worried.” Anders sighed, shrugging. “Things will be just as mad straight after the festival as they will be before it, yes?” 

Slowly, Fenris nodded. 

“Then,” said Anders, “The escape will keep.”

* * *

 

_3\. Shadows and lines, both broad and fine_

Darkness. Torchlight. Metal at her wrists and neck. Different weights and temperature and type. She knew this. Knew that the links sliding between her breasts and over her stomach made her want to scream. There had been a time before the chains. A time when they had just been heavy at her ankles, and there had been light in the room, bright and hot and wrong. Voices had told her to _write_ and to say _this_ and sign _here_ , and there had been names she tried to cling to. Two names, then three. Now, she simply knew that she had skin, that it felt tight and hot and itched when it didn’t burn. Water dripped from above her head. She knew she should see a ceiling. Knew she could not. Darkness. 

“Have a care with the spine.” 

“Yes, Master.” 

“It needs to be a broader stripe. Use the gouge. Work slowly.” 

“Thank you, Master.” 

A slow, steady noise that made her throat close up. _Shri-shr-i-i-i—_ ”

 _A whetstone,_ she thought. _A whetsone._ The word seemed to float into her mind, settling somewhere deep as the sounds carried on out of her sight. They were behind her. 

She felt a cool hand press down on her shoulder, and then the edge of something small and heavy at the nape of her neck. A pause. Pressure. And then a slow, screaming drag that made her cry out. Made her learn she had a voice, and that it was tiny and shredded and that her mouth was filled with blood, because this was not the first time she had cried. Not the first time someone unseen had put tools to her flesh. She learned that the strange wet, rustling sounds she heard were strips of her own skin falling into curls about her body. She could see them now. See them through the black spots and the dizziness and the twisting, sickly openness that filled the room with copper and piss and shit and a hurt that made her buck against the chains, bash her own knees against the floor. The room had turned blue. A hot, bright blue that threw their shadows onto the wall, tall and thin and steady in their work. One of them bent, as if pouring something. 

Fire splashed over her skin. 

The world was black again.

* * *

 

_4\. Silence and symmetry_

The silence lasted a long time. It was longer than the carving pain, which felt endless but still left her like this, waiting in the dark for the next time. Every wait made her remember things. Thirst. The strange difference between the raised, curling scars on one hand, and the smooth skin of the other. That her voice, when it had time to heal, was deep and strange and scared her, because she did not remember ever using it. She sang, and did not know how she knew the words. Her eyes closed, she tried to fill the space with her voice, fingers pressed to the hollow at her throat.

(Also scarred. So scared. Scarred. Scar-scare-scared-red-skill-scream-someone-skin. Sing.)

Sometimes, someone watched. A woman, with eyes like the blue fire when she brought a torch. The woman was called Master, she’d said. Every woman was called Master, and every man. Especially the one with the words. The one who told her where to cut. He would cut her other hand soon. 

“You need to match,” the woman whispered. “Balance is beautiful. Remember that.” 

“Yes,” she said, because questions needed answers and unanswered questions meant hands all over her, and the burning torch pressed to her hair. It meant a new, sick smell in the air and the Master hacking at it with one of the smaller, sharper knives. The Master with the words. He had made new cuts into her scalp, and the silence had taken too long to come back again. She had no more hair to lose. “Yes, Master Hadriana.” 

The woman shook her head. “I still can’t believe it _worked_ ,” she said, soft and thick and unfamiliar in the dark. “Varania’s _gone_.” A pause. A hand on one cheek, nails digging in to make a tiny layer of new pain. “Look at me,” the Master said. 

She did. 

“Who are you?” 

I…” Silence. Something moving too fast in her blood. “I am _here_ , Master.” she said. She knew that.

The woman spat. It caught her in the eye. “You didn’t fight at all,” she said. “Pathetic.”

* * *

 

_5\. Screams_

Water on her body. Cool and clean and making her ache. Her skin shone through it, cracked and pale and cramping under the change. Someone dried her. Someone made her lift things. Counted. Scratched at tablets. Made her lift them again. Silent people pushed her body into strange positions, while the Master with the words talked of strength and flexibility and avoiding adhesion. 

“I’d hate the little fox to lose condition,” he said. “Though it’s hard to help with these wretched tunnels.” 

More food. More water. Salt falling on her face as Master Hadriana touched her, gentle and slow and and deep, which made her cry out as her nerves sparked and she felt the other woman’s mouth on her throat. Her breast. Every time she shook or cried, the Master screamed at her. Screamed and spat and slapped, or ran her lips over the raised scars, which made her cold and sick, and she was bathed again.

* * *

 

_6\. The Master with the words_

“It’s time, I think.” The Master with the words was smiling. They had moved in the night. She had learned it was night when they pushed her out into it, whispering of silence and speed. Master Denarius in front of her, Master Hadriana at her back. The silent others all around. They made her walk. Made her run. The feeling of air and the new pressure on her muscles told her she knew how to smile. 

Now, she knelt before Master Denarius, as Hadriana fastened a new, slim and silver collar about her neck. A small, raised section on the inside pressed against the scarring at her throat. She bit her lip. Sweat broke out over her face as she swallowed, willing it to shift.

“Time and past time,” he said. “You’ve grown into your new name very well.” He reached out and ruffled her short hair, the touch warm and soft enough that she had to fight not to lean into it. She was balanced. She was still.

* * *

 

_7\. All cats are grey at night, they say._

The streets were crowded. Anders knew they would be. He even knew that they would have all the colours and textures of his own dream, since Fenris had tinkered with it so extensively that he was fairly sure he could map these streets with his eyes closed. Still, the throng of grey and white and yellow was overwhelming. He felt he might choke, between the smoke (was that _deathroot_ in there?) issuing from wrought metal censers scattered about the streets, and the mess of muslin in which they were both swathed. Fenris had abandoned his usual blue and black for this, layers of ochre and dove colored fabric making him vanish whenever they were near sandstone walls. Knots of people tightened and unfurled everywhere: magisters, slaves, and merchant-soporati, along with some gawking tourists that made the Fereldan’s heart ache 

“I thought Tevinters knew how to party,” Anders said. 

“This is a festival of the _dead_ , idiot mage.” 

“I thought that was an incentive,” he muttered. Fenris might have smiled.

“Watch out for Varania and look helpful.” 

“In _this_ lot? At least her hair will be—” the words were lost in the rush of the crowd, and Anders strained to keep up with the other mage. Someone played a flute nearby. The eerie, stretched notes that felt like they were sliding under at least one layer of skin, and made him shiver. They were all being drawn to a central point about the columned bulk of the Magesterium. Applause broke out in snatches. Somebody screamed. 

“Fenris?” The elf had vanished. Anders grit his teeth. 

“Boy! Oh, curse it. Magister Fenris, don’t—” 

Castor Aubericus was a tall man. Anders had only seen him on rare occasions, but his height and voice—combined with the fact that no one else would call Fenris ‘ _boy’_ without expecting to sleep for the next decade—were distinctive. Using him as a central point, Anders scanned the throng. 

Denarius stood in the central doorway of the magisterium. He was smiling. Witchlight flickered from the heartwood staff that he held in his right hand. In his left, he held a chain. And, attached to that chain, there was a person. She was small, and she was naked. The collar about her neck seemed almost comically light. A fine-wrought, silvery thing that shone against her body, which—Anders saw with his healer’s eyes, his heart in his mouth—had been cut, over and over, until only her face was free of raised, swirling lines. Some broad, some fine. She was an elf. The marks almost looked like what the Dalish wore, except that there was no ink in her skin, the marks a mottled, heavy grey in the torchlight. Her fingers were marked. Her stomach and thighs and breasts. He saw more detail at each joint, at the swell of her calf, over her shoulder. Blood seeped at one smooth, matching arcs from the corners of her lower lip and over her jaw. It was a strong jaw, to match a long nose. Her eyes were huge: a deep, dark green, her lips full and expression wary. Anders watched, appalled, as she tilted her head—the gesture bird-like and painfully familiar—while Denarius’s smile deepened, and silence moved through the crowd like a single breath. 

Anders saw Fenris in the quiet. He had fallen to his knees in front of them, one hand flat on the tiles and the other clenched at his own throat, as if the pain of it might change what he saw. His face was contorted, unrecognizable in the the light and in his own horror, but his eyes matched the woman’s own. With everyone there to see it. 

“ _No_ ,” he whispered. He did not know the tongue he spoke. It could have been Trade, or Tevene, or even a snatch of long-forgotten Ander for all he knew. He barely felt his lips move. Nobody turned. 

“Lovely, isn’t she?” Denarius said. “She will be all silver and power and speed. Stronger than a little liberati could ever hope. Hadriana showed surprising artistry. She had a whole leg for her own.” 

Anders covered his mouth, and bit down hard on his own palm to stop a scream. Fenris did not move. 

“Her name is Nox,” said Denarius. 

And the world went mad. 

 


	18. Blood and spite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fenris takes his rage out on the streets of Minrathous, Castor Aubericus repays a debt, Nox learns about muscle memory, and Anders does what he does best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mid-level gore warning for this one, and sorry for the delay. Anything written in or about the Fade is a mix of detail from in-game, the comics (especially _Those Who Sleep_ ), and my own slightly weird imagination.

_1\. Blood and spite_

Pride and Desire and Rage crowded each other while the somniari moved through the Fade.

They had watched this one a long time. He rarely did anything worth the attention. Now, he was on fire. 

The landscape writhed. A house fell into a crack in the earth. Mirrors cracked and, because even demons think in metaphors, they bled. The dreamer had shaped a body for itself, all gauntlets and a wild grief that tugged at the strands of mortal emotion that moved their bodies, until they changed from curious to compelled. 

“Use me, little mage.” Hunger was the first to speak, looking through the dreamer into a world full of magic and madness and a young man crumpled on a tiled floor. “You just need to _take_.” 

“Such anger. They took from you.” Rage read the bodies, met the dreamer’s eyes. “They took from you. They hurt you. And they _laughed.”_

“And you are _better_ than this.” Soft-voiced Pride. Always twining around the others. It had many footholds in the mortal world, and had called to this one ever since the boy’s first success. “You are better than any of them, and they think to _hurt_ you? Crush them with a thought. You are the Fade, the Fade is the form of things.” Pride knew the words. Knew what the somniari had read, and listened to. “You can _use_ me.”

“Use us!” 

“ _Usssss—”_

“I need none of you,” the dreamer said. The words took shape, ripping holes in the world around them. “But I will not protect anyone else from you, either. Go, if you want. Take them all.” He watched as, in groups of two or three, Demons quit the Fade. 

Desire stood back. She smiled, resting a hand on the dreamer’s shoulder. “Your sister is lost,” she said. 

“I don’t need you to make them pay for it.” 

“Oh no,” said the Demon. “But I can _find_ her, if you let me in.” 

Her own images did not linger on the chaos in the magesterium, or on Fenris’s drawn face. Instead, the Fade rippled with another shape, all carefully pinned hair and strong, broad shoulders. Her eyes were worried, expression tense a little harsh until she turned to see them. Then, she smiled. Slow and soft and slightly crooked, breathing out his name.

“It would be simple, Leto,” said the Demon, watching her brethren pour through the Veil. 

Fenris shuddered, one hand raking through air of his own making, and he felt Fade-links from other mages catch against his palm. He pulled. He twisted. He searched.

* * *

 

_2\. Fade and fall_

Anders stared, appalled, as Demons filled the courtyard. Pride and Desire and Rage, _pushing_ through the crowds of magister until abominations began to show in cracks through their skin. An invisible, cold hand seemed to catch at his heart. He felt a cry die halfway up his throat. He stared. There was no one. Fenris still lay prone at Denarius’s feet. Varania still stared blankly ahead. Other mages fought each other, or fought their Demons. Many of them were running.

The cold pressure remained. His vision doubled, and there were flames moving about the edges. Sulphur in his mouth. He tried to swallow. Tried to extend his own magic—his own small gift for connections and spirits. He heard sobbing. It seemed to come from the back of his own head. 

_Fenris? Fenris, if that’s you, then_ _**stop** _ **.**

The pressure eased, but the world spun. And when he could see again, Fenris was standing and the light was wrong, faintly green and thick, like the world seen through the bottom of a bottle. He could see Denarius and Hadriana, saw Castor and Aurelia and the whole screaming lot that made up the magisters of Minrathous, all of them staring around in a mix of curiosity and outrage. All of them pulled into the Fade, just as he was. 

Hadriana recovered first, copper and violet witchlight glimmering at her eyes and from her fingertips. She stepped forward. “ _This_ is—”

“This is what I do.” Fenris sounded older, voice shredded. All around them, mages cried out as trees burst out of an image of their city streets, twisting around them and cutting at their clothes and skin. Denarius was untouched. Castor Aubericus flicked a hand, and one of the smaller Rage Demons disappeared in a shower of sparks. 

“Fenris,” he said. “If you keep us here, without lyrium—” 

“—did you know?” The dreamer stared at his former master, ignoring cries from some of the older and weaker mages, whose bodies were thinning out into half transparent wisps as their connection to the Fade guttered and struggled. “Did you know what Denarius had planned?” 

Castor shuddered, glaring at him. “Of course not. Blood and spite—”

“— _would_ you bleed for it? To keep your word?” Fenris moved to his side, caught up the man’s hand in both of his. The older magister cried out, bruises blooming on his skin. 

“ _Yes,_ damn you.” 

Fenris sighed, releasing his former master. “Then I have no quarrel with you.” 

Anders watched in tired fascination as real-world colours bled into the Fade around Castor and about a dozen of the other mages. He heard them gasp. And in a blink, they were gone. 

Denarius and Hadriana remained. 

“You always did enjoy showing off, Fenris.” 

“What did you do to my sister?” 

Denarius smiled. “Nox is a vessel. The lyrium trapped in her skin ensures that no mage need _ever_ go without, if she is near. We can’t all be like you, you know.” 

_Lyrium. Under the skin._ Anders shuddered. Madness, grafted to muscle.

“Don’t call her that.” 

Hadriana spat. “It’s her _name_.” She was wild eyed, flinching at Denarius’s laugh and the whispers that came from the landscape. “Master, we need to leave here. I can’t—I don’t—” 

“Hush, Hadriana. This is just a slave’s anger gone on far too long. You have nothing to fear from it.” 

“Doesn’t she?” Fenris smiled at Hadriana. Stepping forward, he rested a hand above her breastbone. 

“Varania loved you,” he said, and it was almost gentle. Hadriana’s whole body went rigid. “I never understood why. But _I_ could see your nightmares.” The smile broadened. “You will feel every cut you made,” he said. "You will lose your blood and your name. And I will keep hold of your connection to the Fade.” His free hand rose, a small blue light flickered on his open palm. "It will take you a _long_ time to die.” And then he pushed, a crack opening up behind the apprentice, and she fell away into something silent, and small, and dark. 

Denarius laughed. “Elegantly done, Fenris.”

“You didn’t even try to stop me,” Fenris said, voice leaden. 

“Hadriana was growing too strong,” he said, shrugging. “And I appreciate symmetry in sacrifice. My apprentice. Your sister. I can accept that.” 

_Fenris._ Anders’s thoughts skittered. Fenris gave no sign of hearing anything that leaked from the Healer’s mind, but panic had always made him babble. _Fenris, stop this. Leave. You should leave. He’s too bloody calm. You need to_ leave—

Fenris screamed, dropping to his knees. Colours pulsed and faded and ran into each other, and the last thing Anders saw before he was spat from the Fade was Denarius’s smile.

* * *

 

_3\. Incendium_

Fire. Sweet and sick and bubbling up his throat, down into his lungs. Along the spine. He should be dead. He was going to die. He gasped. Smoke dribbled from his mouth. Blackened his spit.

When Fenris opened his eyes, Varania was staring back at him. Silver tinged with red slicked across her skin. Her eyes were distant, lip caught between her teeth in concentration. 

“ _Veran—”_

“—You’re hurting my Master.” The words slid in past the roaring in his ears. Soft and low. “Make it stop.”

* * *

 

_4\. A memory in the muscle_

_Make it stop._

Nox stared at the man at her feet. Blisters rose up all over his skin, distorting his face and his fingers, glistening down his neck and chest. When she touched him, when she tried to stop him from whatever magic he used to keep her Masters trapped somewhere she could not reach, her skin had felt hot. Something bubbling and bright and dangerous had moved from her hands, into him. And then he screamed, and Master Denarius had sat up, and told her _good—good, Nox._ And her hands had stuck to the man’s when she tried to pull away. 

Master Hadriana did not rise with Denarius. She lay shaking on the ground, tears running down her face, though no cries escaped. Nox stared at her. She wore a knife at her belt, and Nox moved to take it. The weight was good and strong in her hand, which folded around the hilt as if made to fit. She moved her wrist, and smiled. 

The knife sank deep into Hadriana’s breast, and she dragged it down, slow and heavy, until it reached her stomach. Life and blood and air and viscera left the body in a gasp, until Master Denarius tugged at the chain at Nox’s neck and new pain spiked from her joints. She cried out. The knife clattered to the tile. 

“Time to go, little fox.” 

_Make it stop._

Nox shivered, and followed her Master. Wondering why her hands itched to take up the knife again.

* * *

 

_5\. Masters and slaves_

The next time Fenris woke, he was in a cell. There was enough light to see the blisters on his hands, and across his chest. His breathing came slowly, wheezing out of him in abrupt, shaking gasps. He could still taste smoke in his mouth.

“You’re awake.” 

Fenris groaned. 

“You are an _idiot._ ” Castor, eyes huge in his bruised face, stared down at Fenris from a window cut into the door. “You’ve killed half the magisters.”

“…I—”

“You unleashed _demons_ on the city.” 

Then it was real. Fenris closed his eyes. 

“The Archon is going to see you killed.” 

Fair enough, Fenris thought. He’d seen thousands dead for less. 

“Where—Denarius?” 

The older magister laughed. It was hollow. “He left after you all fell back out of the Fade. Him and his creature both.” He sighed. “Don’t talk. You can’t. I’m surprised you still have a throat.” 

“My _sister_ —”

“—your _sister_ ,” Castor Aubericus said, “Can set people on fire from the inside, apparently. And she is gone, and Denarius with her. You arrogant shit. You could have _challenged him_ , then it would all be legal.” He sighed, head knocking against the metal of the door. 

Fenris struggled to sit up. His head spun. 

“Magebane,” Castor sighed. “The only thing anyone could think of to stop another rain of Abominations. Fenris, you are going to die.”

“Good.” He tried to swallow, gagged instead. Now, he did taste magebane at the back of his throat, a numbness that made his vision dim. His hands felt oddly seperate from the rest of him. Fenris stared at them. “Anders,” he managed. “Where is Anders?” 

“Oh, _blood_ and spite.” Castor stared at him. “You’re worried about your fucking _slave?”_

Fenris met his eyes. “And you’re not?” 

“No one has seen him,” Castor said. “We’ve all been rather busy. Containing screaming horrors. That sort of thing. If he’s smart, he’ll have left hours ago.”

“He can’t,” Fenris swallowed. “Blood spell.” 

“Ah.” Castor Aubericus looked away from man who had once saved his life. “Tell me where it is. I’ll dispose of it.” 

“Castor—” 

“—I’ll _do it_. Stupid boy.” 

Tears tracking slowly down his face, Fenris told him.

* * *

 

_6\. Euphoria_

Metal scraping. Muffled swearing. And hands. Gentle hands, on his face and his throat and over his heart. When Fenris swallowed, he found that it didn’t hurt. His lips were the normal size in his face. His hands clenched and unclenched, the movements easy and slow. Blue light flared against his closed eyelids. 

“Ugh. Andraste’s chafing garters.” 

When Fenris opened his eyes, Anders blinked down at him, face hectic and flushed. 

“Someone tried to boil you alive,” he said. “Using your own blood. You Tevinters are _charming_ , really. You throw the best parties.” 

“What are you doing?” His voice was still hoarse, but it no longer felt like he had swallowed glass. Anders rolled his eyes. 

“What does it look like?” 

“You need to leave,” Fenris said. “Castor was here. I asked him to destroy the—”

“—ah, so _that_ was the lovely rush of wellbeing I felt earlier,” Anders said. His words were rapid, very soft. “I was wondering, as I don’t associate euphoria with waiting hours on end in slaver tunnels. Did you know they are _everywhere_ under this building?” 

“Anders,” Fenris snapped. “Idiot mage. People are going to come and _kill me_ —”

“—which is why we are _escaping_.” Anders grinned, and it was the old, fierce grin that had clawed at Fenris’s heart when he was a child. Sunshine and anger and impossible hope. “I am very, very good at escaping.” He eased Fenris into a sitting position, hands warm on the magister’s arm and back. “But it’s your job to make sure we don’t get caught.”


	19. Skill and trust and bloodstains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is both fear and joy in escape

1\. _Hope and bloodstains_

They had made it through the tunnels. Anders had a talent for shadows and remembering the right combination of left turns, as well as a knack for ice for which Fenris, still heavy with magebane, and never over-gifted in the physical aspects of magic, was grateful. Giant spiders shriveled in Anders’s wake, and Fenris staggered in the midst of them, fighting for an even breath.

“This comes out at the bridge,” Anders said, pausing under a lip of rock that hid the dirt smears on his face. “Provided the map I stole from your study is accurate.”

“It is.” Fenris let his forehead rest against the rock wall. “Did you steal anything else?”

“Some,” Anders sighed. “All the food I can carry. Elfroot and any poultices I had to hand. The rest of the maps—I think you had Quarinus and Perivantium, and a  _weird_ one of the Free Marches—”

“—Kirkwall’s slave tunnels,” Fenris sighed. “Castor thought he was being funny.”

“Your embarrassingly small store of lyrium, and a change of clothes or three,” Anders continued. “Though I couldn’t find anything of yours that didn’t scream,  _Look, I’m a Magister. Curse you all. More wine!_ But that’s still better than running around in festival sackcloth.”

“Why bring anything for me at all?”

“Fenris?”

The elf raised his head. “Apart from anything else,” he said, “You’d probably find it easier to escape if you weren’t shouldering half my belongings.”

“I couldn’t leave you to die.”

“Why  _not?”_

Anders sighed. He had conjured faint light to see by—no use being stealthy if you fell into a pit—and the blue glow brought nothing good to Fenris’s face. He looked exhausted, face still slightly swollen from the blisters and burns Varania had made, hair limp and falling into his eyes. The grey festival clothes were scorched and tattered, though gold thread still glittered, and the heavy gold and onyx jewelry he always wore about his neck and upper arms seemed to glare sullenly at him. He met Anders’s eyes with his own, but there was hardly anything in them. His movements were jerky, oddly disconnected. This was not the man who terrified and appalled and protected him for three years without his consent, or the awkward near-friend who tried to shape a world that made sense. This was not his voice in the dark.

“That’s a big question,” he managed. “It’s a big, serious,  _important_ question that probably doesn’t belong in this tunnel.”

“As you wish.” Fenris’s gaze slid from his.

Anders reached into his pack, rummaging around until his hand closed around a small, tightly furled scroll of paper. Biting back another sigh, he held it out to the other mage. Fenris took it, eyebrows drawing together.

“This is—”

“—Covered in blood, which might be useful.” Anders felt his mouth twist. “Didn’t you notice, when you read it?”

“This is Varania’s.”

“And covered in blood. Her blood, hopefully.”

“Hopefully?” Fenris repeated, voice thick. Anders wanted to shake him.

“If we  _get out of here_ ,” Anders said, resettling his pack and stepping out from the lip, scanning the length of the tunnel for anything likely to fall on or bite them. “You might be able to use it. Between your own blood and Tevinter sensibility…oh,  _pay attention.”_

“Mage.”

Anders turned his head. Fenris was was looking at him, and the shadows cast by his witchlight did not quite hide a slow, wondering smile.

“Yes, Fenris?”

“Thank you.”

* * *

_2\. Talent and trust_

The bridge that linked Minrathous to mainland Tevinter was a thin, winsome marvel of lapis and marble and magic, and it scared the shit of him. It filled Anders’s vision as he struggled out of the last trap door: carved from the bedrock of the island, and in the bridge’s shadow. Spray chilled his back. His ears rang from the hours they’d spent climbing through tumbling, roaring dark as the tunnels led them closer to the sea. There were faces in the cliffs. Anders picked out their forms in the moonlight. Golems, rough-hewn and still.

“When the city is threatened, they awaken,” Fenris said, voice nearly lost over the crash of the sea. “Though I have never seen it.”

Anders was sure he heard faint regret. He groaned.

“Mage, you’re shaking.”

Fenris moved up to stand behind him, close enough that Anders could smell faint traces of sweat and smoke and dust that clung to his skin, even through the wild weather. He shifted away, arms wrapping tight about himself. “I never noticed _any_ of this, when I came here,” he said. “There were crowds ahead of me; a whole trade caravan behind. It was sticky and hot and I _knew_ I was crossing half an ocean of water on a a bridge that was only as wide as about three of me, and that someone only had to say a few words to make the whole thing fall down, but I didn’t _care._ I was free. It all felt—”

 _“—_ You are free.” Fenris did not move closer, or even look at him. His eyes were fixed the rocks, drawn again and again to the cave they had just escaped, and the public road that brought safer, saner others into the city he had known all his life.

“What if your master lied to you?”

Anders’s voice was breaking, the thin, sharp, panicked notes snatched up in the wind. “I don’t mean anything to him. What if he _forgot_?”

“Anders—”

“He could,” he insisted. “You released a _lot_ of demons. He’s probably still busy.”

“ _Anders—”_

“I don’t want to die,” Anders said, hoarse and shaking his head as Fenris stared at him. “What you said, when you bought me—”

“—I trust him.” Fenris took another slow, careful step away from the other mage, moving to stand at the very foot of the bridge. “I have never forgiven him for what he is: all the the lives that have built his wealth. I cannot forget that he owned me. I expect no forgiveness from you. But, for all that, he was kind more than he was not, in a world that punishes kindness.” He swallowed, raising his voice over the wind. “He would keep his word,” he said. “Can you trust me, just in this?”

Anders shuddered, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand. “I don’t really have a bloody choice, do I?”

“No,” Fenris said, taking another step.

“Again.”

“For the last time.”

Anders looked up at the Tevinter mage. From where he stood on the bridge, Fenris was taller than he was, hair in his face and robes flapping in the wind, eyes still that strange mix of determined and lost. He looked down at his hands. The scar was just visible in the weather-torn moonlight. He traced it with a finger, wincing at the faint, nervous echoes across his skin.

Resettling his pack across his shoulders, Anders stepped onto the bridge. Fenris moved with him, spans ahead and refusing to look back, leaving Anders staring fixedly at his feet as they hit the stone.

One step. Two. Five and twenty, and the cliffs of Minrathous falling away beneath them, leaving ocean and air and the slim, dangerous road. Anders gasped, and kept moving. His own pulse overwhelmed the sea as he walked, vision narrowing to the width of the bridge, to Fenris’s shadow. Fenris’s shoulders had started to shake, and ragged snatches of sound seemed to move through Anders as they walked. Almost sobs. When the bridge ended, he slowly sank to the ground, head in his hands.

Watching, Anders almost missed the moment where own his feet touched earth. The change made him stumble, and he fell hard on hands and knees. Skin tore; air left his lungs in a shocked, pained rush.

Anders laughed.


	20. Interlude III: Lothering's Lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian Hawke returns, missing most of her laughter. The Hawkes flee Lothering.

_Lothering_

“Marian Hawke, what in the Maker’s name have you done to your face?”

The last thing Bethany expected, creeping back along the streets of Lothering, was to see light pouring from her house and hear a dog’s joyous, mad bark. All the doors and windows were open to the air, lanterns flaring from every corner, throwing shadows at her as she walked quietly through the front door. Her mother and sister stood in the kitchen. 

Marian looked haggard, blue eyes near-lost in the shadows, grime, and—yes—the large red streak that crossed her face, but she still managed a smile as she faced Leandra, leaning against one wall in a creditable copy of her old insouciance, hands loose at her sides. Cù lay across her feet, a heaving, exhausted mass covered in kaddis the exact shade as the new ink on his mistress’s face, his paws now almost as big as Bethany’s fisted hands. 

“It’s a tattoo,” Marian said.

“It’s on your face!” 

Carver sighed, stepping into view. It was a familiar sigh. Heavy, put-upon, and so very dear to Bethany, looking at them all, that she had to swallow tears. “She cut her face and thought the blood smear was artistic,” he said. “Or something. Don’t you look at me—at least mine barks.” 

“Oh, _Carver.”_

“Don’t sigh like—Beth, is that you?” 

As one, Bethany’s family turned to look at her. Her world narrowed to three pairs of eyes in different strengths of blue. Worried smiles. Tears streaming down her mother’s face in a way her youngest knew all too well. She saw surprise and raised eyebrows. Dark hair and stained skin. Marian’s hair short and ruffled, Carver’s tied back. Blood showed on his leather armour. Bruising chased almost all the skin she could see. Marian had new daggers at her back and a wildness in her eyes that made Bethany’s breath catch, until Carver moved forward to snatch her up and spun her around the room. She laughed. Relief and worry and joy mixed in with the bandit’s screams. Bethany let her head fall against her brother’s shoulder, only wrinkling her nose a little at the smell. 

“Good, you’re here.” 

Marian’s voice cut through Carver’s questions and their mother’s laughing tears. Bethany squirmed and Carver set her down, the two of them turning to face their older sister, who had squared her shoulders and was looking at them steadily, as if they were a squad in her charge. 

“We need to leave by first light,” she said. “Sooner, if we can.”

Leandra flinched, but Carver was nodding, expression grim. 

“We’ve been packing to leave,” Leandra said. “Bethany and I have just been waiting for you. For both of you.” She swallowed, hands twisting together. “But you both look awful. You need rest, and—”

“—I know, mother.” Marian sighed, and tried to smile. “And thank you. But we had Darkspawn at our back the whole way here. If we risk any more time—”

“—there are _terrible_ bandits.” Leandra shuddered, turning to Bethany for support. 

“If you mean the piles of smoking corpses by the main highway,” Carver said, a big hand falling to Bethany’s shoulder as she winced. “I think someone dealt with them.” 

Bethany had to choke back a laugh. _Oh, brother, if only you knew._

Leandra stared at her children, and then at the mess of half packed belongings that were strewn about her kitchen. “But— _how_?” she managed. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Marian said. “We leave tonight.” 

* * *

The next hours were full of dirt and scree and bloated, screaming chaos. Bethany’s shoulders ached from the weight of her mail, her father’s staff heavy in her hand as she drew fire again and again until all she could taste was smoke and burning Darkspawn. She kept to the rear, setting brushfires in their wake, keeping an arm to her mother’s back when the other woman staggered. Carver and Marian were grim faced and silent, the dog darting back and forth between them, and they stripped bodies with an easy efficiency that hurt somewhere deep in Bethany’s gut as she watched.

Leandra, looking back the way they had come, started to shake. 

“You need to keep up,” Marian snapped. 

“Wait.” Bethany straightened, stepping ahead of her mother, the spirit’s voice bleeding into her father’s and itching beneath her skin. “Where are we _going_?”

“Away from the Darkspawn,” Carver said, in the tone that made her feel ten and stupid, his sword looking light in his grip. “Where else?” 

“We can’t just wander,” she managed, glaring at him and hating the tired, lost look on their mother’s face. 

Carver bridled. “Don’t look at us,” he said. “We’ve been running since Ostegar.”

Marian—this new and strange, glaring Marian who seemed to have lost her laughter somewhere between the last year and the steep hillside away from their home—stepped between them, shaking dark blood from her daggers. “Are you two insane?” she asked tightly. “If we stand around arguing, then we’re all going to die.” 

“ _Listen_ to your sister.” The familiar words—the sight of Leandra glaring at her three grown children as if they could be sent to their rooms any minutes, made a mad laugh rise in Bethany’s throat. She swallowed it. 

The Hawke family kept moving.

* * *

 

“The Chantry dictates—!”

By the time the Templar came, his wife a bright, burning whirlwind at his back, Bethany thought nothing would surprise her any more. They were taking ship from Gwaren. To Kirkwall. The city of chains and Templars and some of their mother’s most wistful looks. And now a Templar stared at her with clouded blue eyes, and the look on his face said that the Darkspawn who had sliced into his arm and ribs were less repellent than she. His surprise was open and guileless, and it made her want to weep. Or smile. 

A smile would _really_ unnerve him. 

“I am Aveline Vallen,” said the whirlwind, shifting restlessly by her husband as Marian carefully edged into the Templar’s personal space. “We can hate each other when this is over.” 

Carver was nodding. Leandra, at Bethany’s back, barely seemed to breathe. 

Now, Marian did smile. “Just as long as you know,” she said, voice warm and steady and a bright jolt of surprise to her younger sister. “I stand with Bethany, Templar.” 

The Templar— _Ser Wesley—_ stepped back. Bethany heard Carver sigh. He looked away from her, worry and embarrassment stuck deep in the new lines on his face. Bethany swallowed, and reached briefly for Marian’s hand. Silent thanks. 

When they moved again—South, they decided: dangerous and wild and inevitable—her twin never looked her in the eye. 

As the Wilds pressed in and she remembered the nights Carver begged their father to stop telling them stories of witches and Chassind and children who stepped into the shadow of one tree, and never came out again, she tried to meet his eye. 

“You’re scaring Bethy,” he’d say, as he glared his very best seven-year-old glare. Bethy had loved every minute, but she always nodded, keeping her eyes big and her smile suppressed, and she had held Carver’s hand under the table and never told. Now, in the real Wilds, he did not look at her. Not with a Templar at their back.

A hurlock nearly felled him from behind; she turned it to ice. Something dead and shrieking and vile clawed for her throat; he cut it in two. He had been gone for years, and she had missed him. But she was an apostate, and there were strangers looking on. 

And the earth under their feet started to shake. 

Small rocks skittered across the path. Aveline’s head jerked up, while Marian sank low, unsheathing her blades and angling herself in front of their mother while Carver glared, face flushing under the dirt, and moved to do the same. If the tension and shuddering earth and the low, deep-chested growl that started from Cù had not brought sweat to her skin and made her want to scream, she would have smiled. She saw the old patterns of rivalry as they moved, both of them gallant and fierce and Carver hating it when even Marian’s shadow touched his own. She opened her mouth to tease them, which would at least bring a smile to Leandra’s face, if nothing else, when the ogre charged.

A mass. A mountain. A tumble of limbs and teeth that brought the wind before it and dropped Bethany to her knees. She could hear her mother gasping somewhere to the left of her. Aveline crying out and calling _back; love, fall back,_ to her wounded Templar. Her ears rang. The beast sounded like it was choking on the air, and Marian was a blur in its shadow. 

Carver was perfectly clear. She saw him swallow. Saw him step forward, the muscles in his arms and back tensing as he hefted the sword Malcolm Hawke had needed his wife’s help to buy, as she knew much more than he ever could about edged weapons for their son to grow into. As he lifted it now, running to meet the mountain head on, it looked tiny. A match, striking a single spark. 

“You soulless bastards.”

His ribs broke first. Bethany was sure. As the ogre snatched him up and squeezed, drawing a sound from her brother would haunt her for the rest of her life, she knew the ribs would be first. The lungs would bruise and fill and tear. His stomach would be caught on his spine. But it was the blow to the head that killed her brother. The hard dash to the earth. Bethany heard his skull crack. Watched him jerk and spasm in a way that told her he was only muscle, now, the rest of him out of their reach. Marian snarled and leapt, but Bethany was faster. She was all light and hate and ozone, too big for her skin. Her hands rose, and the earth rose with it, smashing down on the beast in a mess of dust and blue light; the seconds this gave her had Bethany pulling more from the Fade. Sticky, entropic energy that twisted about the ogre and sank through its armor, into what passed for its skin. 

A beat. Then two. Marian’s eyes meeting hers across the Darkspawn’s prone, stunned form.

The ogre exploded. 

_End of Part 1._

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, squarely in canon events. I hope you stay with me as the cast all Circle in to Kirkwall. Thank you again for all the wonderful feedback and support; this has turned into a much larger project than I ever expected, and I'm enjoying it immensely.


	21. Relics of the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Fenris have scoured the Imperium, dodged some deeply unimpressed Qunari, and found themselves docked in Val Royeaux. They need a fast ship, and the fastest blade in Llomerryn is looking for a new healer.

**_One year later - 931 Dragon, Val Royeaux_ **

_1\. Time, talismans, and promises._

 Anders knew he lived in a time full of stupid people, who did many stupid things. Anders also knew that he and Fenris, walking unmasked and poorly dressed in the shipyards of Val Royeaux, were right up there with the best of them. Fenris, left hand clutching the beaten gold locket Anders knew he had hidden beneath his robes, and staring at the thin stream of blood that ran from his right wrist, had other concerns.

“She’s not here.”

“The Qunari aren’t, either.” Anders tried to shield the smaller man, moving through the daytime throng of sailors and tourists with a wary eye. “Which is a definite improvement.”

Varania’s blood had led them the breadth of the Imperium. From Minrathous, there had been a season in Perivantium; and on to Qarinus, Seheron and—for a week that Anders would do his best to forget—even to Par Vollen. Fenris was relentless, scars building upon scars as he used his blood to make a tiny link with hers, and Anders grew used to the lurch and electricity of blood magic even as he worried about the other man running out of skin. In Par Vollen, they had been close. Days, even hours close, as colour drained from Fenris’s face and they pushed through rock-strewn fortresses that forced the elvhen man into boots. But frazzled, bleeding mages tend to be found, and the Qunari took exception.

With emphasis.

“This is useless.” Fenris sagged against a warehouse, letting his arm drop and not flinching as the other mage pressed absent, familiar fingers to the wound. It was a shallow thing, and easy to heal. “I’m losing her. The blood is—it’s a year old, Anders.”

Anders looked at the man’s ravaged arm. “Denarius hasn’t exactly been _private_ ,” he said. “Talk to the right people, and—”

“—do _you_ know the right people?” Fenris glared at him, pulling his arm roughly from Anders’s hold. “Were there many in your tower?”

 _It’s blood loss._ Anders closed his eyes. _It’s blood loss and the ship and bloody_ Orlais _and—_

“You are an _ass.”_

“So you keep telling me.” The other man’s glare did not fade. “Leave and be spared it,” he said. “You know you can.”

Sarcasm did not suit Fenris. This did not seem to stop him from trying it out. Anders sighed.

“Here,” he said. “In Orlais. The centre of a Church that wants to kill me for the crime of being born.” He smiled. “ _You’d_ be killed twice.”

Fenris was no longer looking at him. His attention was fixed on a woman at the other end of the dock. She leapt up onto a couple of large shipping containers and seemed to be holding a sailor near-twice her height off the ground. By his ear.

“Now, then, Sid,” she said, ignoring the cheers that were breaking out around her. “Do you know what I do with people who try and give my crew snake oil?”

“N-n-n-n-”

“No?” Her voice was a light, pleasant drawl. “Neither do I, because no one’s been stupid enough to try it.” She shifted her weight, light catching on gold at her throat and the interesting shifts of muscle and skin that played out along arm and back and thigh as she threw him into the harbor. Anders saw Fenris’s eyes widen. He bit back a laugh.

The woman— _the pirate_ , said his memory, as onlookers whooped and cursed and he remembered a smoking fireplace, too much whiskey, and dark eyes laughing at him over cards in a brothel in Denerim—bowed from her stage of packing crates.

“Impressive,” Fenris said, a low and slightly dazed exhalation.

“She always is.”

“You _know_ that woman?”

“A lot of people know Isabela.” Anders grinned despite himself. “Hush.”

“Right,” said the sharpest blade in Llomerryn. “That leaves _Siren’s Call_ short on crew. Is one of you louts a healer?”

* * *

 

_2\. Relics of the past_

Captain Isabela surveyed the  weary, underfed, and desperate looking pair who stood at her hull. They were really rather striking. The tall, scruffy one who seemed to be all cheekbones and anxious eyes looked almost familiar.

“So, you’re a healer.”

“No snake oil, eye of newt, or other dubious liquids required,” he said, sketching a bow.

She watched a smile pass briefly over his face, and felt her own lips twitch. “And you’re Fereldan,” she said. “I _do_ know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

“The girl with all the griffin tattoos, at the Pearl?” he ventured. “Not me, I was there when you—”

“Ah, the Lay Warden.” _That_ was a memory to enjoy, sweet and almost weightless amongst the dark, inchoate mess that sent her into this bloated cesspool of a port. “She was a sweet thing. And _you_ , now. You were the runaway mage with the electricity trick.” Isabela’s success showed in his blush. She grinned. “That was nice.”

“I dare not ask.”

This came from the elvhen man, all flyaway hair and skin only a few shades lighter than hers. He was _just_ her height, glaring at the two of them and dressed in slightly tattered finery; a magister’s deep blues and blacks. He was gorgeous.

She sighed. “There’s no fun in that,” she said. “I _like_ daring. But—” here, she turned back to the healer, “Your friend looks awfully…magisterial, sweet. What was your name, again? Alan? Abernath—”

“—Anders—”

“—yes! That was it.” Isabela shifted, making sure to look them both square in the face. “You see, Anders,” she said. “I’m making a point of staying _away_ from Tevinter, just now. And while I could use a healer on my ship and always enjoy a man with pretty eyes, you’d best be my _only_ new cargo.”

“Fenris hates slavers,” Anders said, a hitch in his voice that was worth remembering for later.

“I can speak for myself.” The elf was definitely bridling now. A faint, horrified tone lurked beneath the outrage.

“Glad to hear it,” Isabela said. “You have _such_ a pretty voice. Where are you heading.”

“Away from Qunari,” said Anders, while Fenris glowered. It was _that_ final piece of ridiculousness made Isabela hold out both hands in welcome.

“Funny, that,” she said. She rapped a gentle hand on the ship’s rail. “Welcome to the _Siren’s Call._ You’ll have to bunk with the crew, but consider yourselves free to board.”

Anders smirked, which made Isabela laugh even as she shook her head.

“You weren’t _that_ nice, sweet thing,” she said, without rancor. “And you’ll be working for two.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Good boy.”

Turning away from the ship’s peculiar new additions, Isabela breathed deep. The air tasted metallic and heavy behind the salt and garbage of the dock. Her two new passengers now leaned heavily on the rail.

“Don’t take too long to get settled,” she said. “We leave in an hour. A storm’s coming.”

* * *

 

_3\. Sparkle_

“So you escaped your Circle,” Fenris said, eying Anders from the tiny ship’s bunk he was to call his own. The human had to crouch to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. “And ran to a brothel. In Denerim. And met a pirate.”

Anders grinned at him. The light was bad, but he caught the brief flash of teeth, could hear the warm humor in his voice. “So you don’t know everything about me after all,” he said. “I think I like that.”

“Mage—”

“—I was sixteen, Fenris.” Anders placed a cautious hand on the ceiling, as if to make sure that it truly was as close as he feared. “What would you have done?”

“I was sixteen when we met,” Fenris said, baffled.

“Ah.” Anders looked away, finally tucking himself into the second free bunk. “That’s easy to forget.”

* * *

 

_4\. The lookout_

Sailing, Fenris discovered in the grey, brisk days that followed them from the Orlesian port, was surprisingly enjoyable. On the other ships they had taken since living Minrathous, passengers were expected to pay up and then do their best to keep out of everyone’s way. The Captain—Fenris found that he wasn’t quite up to the task of calling her Isabela—had watched him move about the boat, told him that he did a passable job of not falling over, and had him up in the rigging with Brand, a laughing First Mate who was adept at explaining how to cling, and shift, and keep his balance.

“You look like you scowl, if you’re left standing about,” Isabela had said. “My lot are superstitious enough without having a real Tevinter Magister giving them the evil eye.”

He did scowl. The blood spell was thready—the talisman he had made from the stained scraps of his sister’s letter barely responded no matter the power he put into it, and he had never been good at reading her dreams. The Captain simply laughed.

“You’re proving the point right there,” she’d said, and, because it was her ship and her word, he had found himself learning knots and taking lookouts.

The Waking Sea was was giant and live and strangely soothing. It filled the crew’s dreams, one and all; it changed colour and mood, much like the Fade. And, as _The Siren’s Call_ moved towards the low, desolate edges of the Free Marches, Fenris’s talisman, which had lain cold and unresponsive against his chest for months now, began a slow, insistent burn.

* * *

 

_5\. Manners at sea._

“Captain, we’ve a tail.”

Isabela looked up from the maps littered about the desk in her stateroom. Brand, pinched and pale, looked back at her. “Qunari dreadnought,” he said. “And it’s on the right wind for it. If this weather keeps up—” He held out the spyglass, and she got to her feet, outpacing him to the deck and and taking Brand’s usual place by the tiller. Glass to her eye, she looked to the north.

“Now, that’s just _rude.”_

“Course, Captain?”

Isabela carefully let the spyglass fold back into its lovely, brass self. She hefted it, and smiled, as she handed it back to him.

“Brand, we’re sleeker, sweeter, and at least three times as fast.”

“Aye.”

“And so,” she said. “Head straight. As straight, and true, and damn well fast as the old girl can. I want to keep so far away from those Qunari that no one even hears the drums.”

Brand saluted. Both the pirates leaned to the north wind. It was a new, sharp thing that bit their faces and snatched at the bright scarf in Isabela’s hair. Clouds that chased that wind, roiling and tumbling over each other as they massed and lowered, promising rain while lightening ghosted their edges.

Neither needed to speak. 


	22. Wonder and chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pirate, a magister, and an apostate ~~go into a bar~~ find themselves on the wounded coast, while Bethany Hawke has decided to take her safety firmly into her own hands.

_1._ _Io Isabela_

 The sea was calm. And it was thick with splinters. Stretches of grey shore along the Wounded Coast were littered with wood and rag and bone.

Isabela spat sand from her mouth.

It burned. If her ribs were any judge, she’d been beaten upside down in a sack. Salt flaked from her skin as she moved, finding every tiny scratch. Her head ached, ears still full of the sea and Qunari drums. She had fought.

They all had fought.

> (Isabela’s hands, white knuckled as she scraped the _Siren’s Call_ through a stretch of reef, hoping to ground her pursuers in exchange for new scars.
> 
> Her boys and her girls, scrambling up the sides of a Qunari dreadnought and laughing as they fell.
> 
> Anders, up to the elbows in blood and rope burns, and Fenris, pale and sick, telling her that no, he had no spells for weather. Not here. Not where the world actually happened. Whatever _that_ meant, by the Maker’s useless, oversworn balls.
> 
> Brand’s face, awed and frightened as she forced him over the side, as the ship’s last boat took him away before the wind could toss the old girl up and spit her out again. “Why did I leave Casavir in Val Chevin, sailor?”
> 
> “Because he managed to get drunk while in prison?”
> 
> “I did it because you’re a _good_ First Mate,” she’d told him, still bold and smiling. Still the Captain. “I’m not going to bloody well let you die now. If you see Castillion, spit in his beer for me. ”
> 
> He went with a salute. And it didn’t take long for the mast to fall, the crack breaking through waves and thunder and the steady beat of pursuit.
> 
> The weight of the relic in her arms, before the sea took her whole.)

Isabela shuddered, swallowing memories and salt.

“Bugger it,” she said. And she fainted.

* * *

 

 _2._   _Small found things_

“You will injure yourself. Again.”

“Maker, I’m fine. She’d have punctured a lung, and—”

“—and you are about to fall.”

“I am _no—_ oh.”

Isabela woke to a rush of air, a thud, and the distinct, lovely feeling that she could breathe in without small, important bits grinding together.

She shifted gingerly, opening her eyes to see a good amount of bruised, scraped up leg as Anders drew his long body into a sitting position in coughing, offended dignity. Fenris scowled down at them both.

“Oh, good,” she managed. “I got washed up in company.”

“Your leg was broken,” Anders said, grimacing as he swallowed sand. “Be careful when you stand.”

“If you were worried I’d puncture a lung with a broken leg, I _must_ have been a sight.”

The healer laughed with her, slow and faint and more than a little dire. “That was your ribs.”

“He has spent too much of himself,” Fenris snapped, as Isabela attempted to sit. Her hand scrabbled at the sand, and she winced as a long splinter found her palm.

Anders was looking up at the other mage, and seemed to be trying not to smile. He was losing. “I couldn’t leave _your_ broken leg, either.”

“You are—” Fenris broke off with something low and savage and, Isabela assumed, very Tevinter. “Aggravating.” Reaching down, he grasped Anders firmly by the forearms, pulling him to his feet.

Isabela examined the splinter. “It’s a shame you can’t heal boats as well as people,” she said. “Because if you _could_ —”

“I’m sorry,” said Anders. “What will you do?”

“Lick my wounds and buy a drink, most likely.” Groaning, Isabela looked around desolate bit of beach, all stewn with her hopes and debts. “Find any of my crew. Chase up a few things.” She swallowed, and tried a smile. No use being maudlin. “I’m good at that. Also, _oi._ I could use a nice, manly hand up myself, just now. I _hate_ feeling shaky.”

Fenris took her arm, easing her to her feet. They held. Looking down, she saw with no faint relief that she had both her boots.

“I think we’re near Kirkwall,” she said, scanning the coastline. “Closer to Kirkwall than Starkhaven, at any rate. Horrible place. Didn’t do well with new sorts of disreputable, even before the blighted Blight.”

“Blighted blight?” said Anders, sardonic.

“It’s accurate,” Isabela snapped. “My head hurts. And I’m no good with metaphors.”

“There is a way into the city,” Fenris said, abrupt. “It is probably secret to any who aren’t…disreputable.”

“Take me with you,” Isabela said, phantom crowds and gate guards adding to the ache in her head. “And I’ll owe you a favour.”

Anders eyed Fenris skeptically. “Tunnels. Again. You still have the maps?”

The elf nodded, turning to Isabela. “That is acceptable.”

The pirate sighed. “One day,” she said. “When I feel less like flying into wailing little bits, I’m going to find out if you can _smile_.”

* * *

_Meanwhile, in Darktown_

_3._ _Just rewards_

 “And here we are.”

Bethany peered into the new patch of gloom that Athenril had opened up for her, and she smiled. “This looks perfect.”

The smuggler chuckled, soft in the dark. “Yours is a hopeful nature.”

Bethany’s laugh was rueful. “It could be,” she said. “Once I get to work.”

“Don’t worry,” said Athenril. “The Coterie will give you _lots_ of work. Even without your sister around to stab people.” The smuggler shook her head, leathers creaking faintly as she moved, brass buckles gleaming from the lit taper in her hand. “She’s a bit too good at that,” she said, as Bethany shivered at the tight, hard look that crossed Athenril’s narrow face. “Should’ve been a mercenary.”

“Marian’s found everything you’ve wanted,” Bethany said, trying not to glare.

“That’s true enough.” Athenril smiled, patting her shoulder. “And we’d keep you safe even if Hawke wasn’t so good at her job.”

Bethany snorted. “Useful to have around. That’s me.”

“And don’t you forget it.” Athenril only acknowledged sarcasm when it was in her favour. “I won’t ask if you agree to the terms—”

“—on account of liking my own breathing,” the mage concluded, shaking her head. “You’ll keep me safe, these rooms will be a clinic for _anyone_ , and I’ll never take any gold from your hand.” Bethany let the fall between them, and smiled. “Varric _hates_ that last bit, you know.”

Athenril sniffed. “Tethras doesn’t know shit,” she said. “For all he thinks he’s part of some Orlesian Bard play. Enjoy your new clinic. Don’t let the rats bite.”

The next hours were spent moving boxes under tallow lamps and witchlight, Justice a warm, pleased thrum along her bones.

Justice had _not_ liked smuggling. The last year jangled in Bethany’s memory—quiet missions in the dark where she had to hold back outrage that did not belong to her at all. Athenril had treated them well. She was wicked and smart and not unkind, and Marian had lost herself to the work, learning names and faces and, after the first few months, remembering how to smile. They met a dwarf who told stories, and there was a mission to be had.

Bethany had watched it all, because little sisters always watched. But Justice saw the children left hungry after their parents made their bribes. He saw the dark, empty windows of the Gallows at night. He saw Bethany’s new world of sneaky things for sneaky people, and he _screamed_ at it. All while Templars walked the streets.

Something had to be done.

Looking about the two-room space in Darktown, with its lock and its space for several beds, once you dealt with the rubbish and the rats and the loose, hanging nails, Bethany thought that she might have found it.

_4._ _Wonder and chance_

>  Dusty and sore, Bethany dreamed of dragons.
> 
> They were on Sundermount. Her sister stood before the small, stone altar, and it looked like she was glaring into lightening.
> 
> “You may have saved my life,” the witch had said. “As I did yours. An even trade, I think.
> 
> Flemeth crackled and smiled and spat, her words fast enough that Bethany found she was stumbling forward as if she could catch them. Dimly, she heard Varric’s indrawn breath, and a small rush of air from Merrill, who stood out in front of them all, even Marian, looking slight and awed and very, very brave.
> 
> Flemeth. Asha’bellanar. The fire and teeth that had come too late for Carver, just as Bethany had. Just as Marian had. The old hag who talks too much, giving riddles tied up in advice.
> 
> “I…think I met your daughter,” Bethany whispered. Yellow eyes met hers, and held.
> 
> “And a charming puzzle you’d have been to her, too,” Flemeth said as Marian turned sharply to stare.
> 
> “Bethany?”
> 
> “We stand upon the precipice of change,” the witch said, turning away from the party and looking out over the mountain’s view of trees and graves and scorch marks. “The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment—and when it comes, do not hestiate to leap!” A smile. A turn of her head, the world silvering to match her hair. “Your sister,” she said, “Already has some practice in this. Little things. Dark and bright things. But flights, all the same.”
> 
> “I—”
> 
> “Hush, spirited girl,” Flemeth said, with the air of someone entirely too happy with their own joke. “You are unnerving your sister, and she is not used to being unnerved.”
> 
> Bethany stepped away from the old woman, but Flemeth only laughed. “It is only when you fall,” she said, turning back to Marian, “That you learn whether you can fly.”
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  

_5\. Friends in the dark_

 “Now, Sunshine. You be careful down here, or you’ll wilt.”

Bethany woke from ominous words and mountain graveyards to the scents of dust, lye, and deathroot. And she she opened her eyes to Varric’s smile in her new doorway. She stretched, coming to a creaky stand from where

“Isn’t that Merrill, Varric?” She groaned, rubbing her eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be caught napping.”

“Hawke says you’ve been making this place presentable for two days,” said the dwarf. “Presentable in Darktown is hard work _._ And epithets are flexible. And before you ask, yes, I’m here to make sure you’re eating.”

“You know,” Bethany said, even though she couldn’t help but smile. “You and my sister are a _bad_ influence on each other.”

“And we’ve only known each other three months!” Varric grinned. “Hawke’s not bad, for a human. It runs in the family. Come out, now. I’ve a hand of cards that needs you.”

Still smiling, Bethany gathered up a small bag and headed to the door. Her clinic’s door. As soon as she fixed the ceiling. Varric bowed.

“I thought you were trying to find a way into the Deep Roads,” Bethany said. “How can you do that when you’re so busy being charming?”

“Hidden depths, Sunshine. Though really, you’re sister’s still chasing the rest of the coin. We have a few leads.”

“Well.” Bethany locked the doors behind her, setting a glyph in the wood that would cheerfully remind anyone who thought they were clever that keep off signs were not, actually, a test. “You all know where I am if you need me.”

“We do,” said Varric. “And the Templars won’t know a thing.”


	23. The storyteller's art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it seems as if all stories come through the Hanged Man. Sisters and friends. Masters and slaves. A pirate with promises to keep.

_1\. The storyteller_

Marian Hawke eased into a chair at the Hanged Man, wincing as her boot stuck to the floor. “Do I get a drink out of this?”

Varric smiled, enjoying the surprise that crossed the human woman’s face as Norah set a tankard at her elbow. “Who do you think I am, Hawke?” 

“Still too smooth.” She raised her drink, letting herself grin back at him, the flash and ease of it warming her eyes from grey ice into a proper blue. 

Varric slipped Norah a sovereign, and took a pull at his own ale. “You wound me.” 

“I’m good at that.” The dwarf cursed himself as the cheer drained from her face. She grimaced as she swallowed. “Did you speak to Bethany?” 

“I did, and you can, too. Darktown’s only a few feet and a bucketful of desperation away. I’m sure she could use the company.” 

“I don’t—” Hawke sighed. “I’ll only shout a lot.” 

Varric sighed. “Is that part of the job description for older siblings? I thought it was just Bartrand.” 

“I’m supposed to _protect_ her.”

“’Hawke said aggressively, brow furrowed as she wrestled with the idea that sweet Bethany was a grown-up woman who was actually very good at killing people and other scary mage shit…’”

“Shut it.”

“Your brow _is_ furrowed, Hawke. Be careful. You’ll get wrinkles.” 

“I don’t know when she _learned,_ Varric.” 

“When who learned what?” Varric asked, watching as Hawke scratched intently with one of her daggers at the tabletop. “Personal pronouns are important to the story.” 

“I’d have sworn Beth had never killed anything in her _life,”_ she said. “She hid. We all hid. She and father spent so much time hiding and striving and—being _safe._ That’s all she’s ever wanted.” Hawke worried at her lower lip. “And the only person who would have taught her…’scary mage shit’ would have been Da, and they were both loud pacifists, and then he was dead. And Carver and I were away in the King’s army.” Her hand was white knuckled about her dagger hilt in a way that Varric found unsettling. He caught Norah’s eye, nodding to his friend’s empty tankard. Hawke, lost in memories, didn’t seem to notice. 

“Something _happened,”_ Hawke said, eyes fierce and almost colorless now in the dingy, comfortable gloom of the pub. She was glaring through him. “Between Father’s death and leaving Lothering.” 

“Three years?” Sometimes, Varric thought, his mouth lacked a healthy sense of preservation. Hawke drove the dagger into the table. Norah, coming up behind with the refill, squeaked. 

“Ease off on the furniture, Killer.” 

Hawke shuddered, slowly letting her hand fall. “You need to change that nickname.” 

“Well, Waffles doesn’t suit you.” Varric shrugged. “Not so long as you keep sticking sharp, pointy things into hapless objects. Go on,” he said. “Talk to me.” 

“I _was_ talking about something that made her glow _blue,”_ she snapped. “Something that made her leave mother and Gamlen—”

“—now, Hawke.” Varric reached out both hands in gentle supplication. “I hate to tell you this, but leaving your Uncle seems like a mark of sanity. And hygiene.” 

This, thank whoever was listening, above ground or below, brought out a reluctant smile. Varric did not have time to revel in it. A blink, and she was back to staring at the knife, shoulders tense. 

“Mother was…not kind, when Carver died.” She raised her eyes and smiled again, all color stripped from it. “She’s always lashed out under pressure—it made working with drill sergeants in Cailan’s army _relaxing_ , if you can believe it. Armies yell in a way that makes sense. Mothers…”

“No need to tell me twice. She blames you for your brother’s death?”

“She blames _Bethany_.” Hawke laughed, small and wondering. “Bethany…did something. To the ogre. Her face changed. Her _voice_ changed. It sounded like it was in harmony with itself. Right up until the ogre exploded.” 

“That’s surprisingly lyrical, Hawke.” 

“I’ve had a long time to think about it.” 

Varric leaned forward, rewarding the story with his favourite words. “And what happened next?” 

“Carver was still dead,” she said, flatly. “Beth was too late. We were _both_ too late, but mother fixed on her.” Hawke shook her head, the unhappy smile still in place. “I can see _exactly_ why staying away from the lamenting chorus in Lowtown makes sense, but…opening a clinic? That isn’t _safe_ , Varric. It’s brave and good and important, and the scared little sister I know wouldn’t do it.” 

“Careful, Hawke. Your pride is showing.” 

“I am proud,” said Hawke, nursing the tankard between both hands. “I just wish I knew what happened.” 

Varric smiled, pulling the dagger from the table with only a small grunt of effort. “And my point returns,” he said. “Visit her. Do your yelling, and don’t be too shocked if she yells back. Or, better yet, ignore all the personal bullshit and just gossip.”

“…gossip.”

“’Hawke said incredulously, a thundercloud passing across her beautiful features’—yes, gossip. I think, for example, that by the time you pluck up the balls to go and see Sunshine, you’ll have met some new people.” 

“I’d say that I’m going to regret asking this,” Hawke sighed, plucking the abused dagger from his grasp and re-sheathing it. “But it is _far_ too late for that. What are you talking about?”

“You see those two over there,” he asked. “The blonde one, and the angry looking elf in robes?” 

Hawke squinted. “You mean, the angry looking elf who’s just…ordered wine.” She winced, a small smirk tugging at her mouth. “That’s not going to end well.”

“The very same.” Varric chuckled. “They’ve taken rooms opposite mine. The door’s always locked. Spelled, I think. And nastily at that. I think they’re going to pay us a visit.” 

Hawke watched as the elf took a steady gulp of what passed for wine at the Hanged Man. His face twisted. He seemed to pale. And he spat, knocking the bottle to the floor with a loud, unintelligible curse. 

“Why do you say that, Varric.” 

The dwarf shrugged. “Call it a narrative hunch,” he said, over rising noise. The shouts and jeers that made up the leading stanzas to a barfight.

* * *

 

_2\. Songs of captivity and freedom_

“You’re lucky they didn’t kick us out.” Anders pulled on the door to their rooms, kicking the old, battered wood in annoyance as it stuck halfway. “Did you _have_ to break the bottle?” 

“The stuff was fit only to clean floors.”

“It did look a bit acidic,” Anders admitted, watching as Fenris stalked to the small, single window that graced the main room in the suite they had hired for Fenris’s last bag of hoarded gold and the promise of a decent hangover cure. “Get the whiskey next time. Still—” 

“—this whole _city_ is vile,” Fenris spat. “The way they keep their mages…” He turned, unable to keep the sneer from his voice as Anders refused to meet his eyes. “The way mages _stay kept_ is—”

“—is the natural result the world telling us that it is our _responsibility_ to be locked up.” Anders laughed softly. “Kirkwall is just more direct about it than the rest of Thedas.” 

“And this doesn’t bother you?” 

The words fell between them, hard and worse than the rotgut wine. Fenris went still. He watched as all colour left Anders’s face, leaving him pinched, his eyes bruised. He remembered small, circular rooms. Templars, perfect copies of those who now walked with such confidence through Kirkwall’s twisting streets. Templars, and the boy who had laughed in their faces and cried on their boots. As that boy filled the healer’s eyes, Fenris started to call himself every kind of idiot. 

“What it does, _Master,”_ said Anders, drawing out the words, his diction horribly precise, “Is show you why I thought running away to Tevinter was the best option.” 

“Mage. Anders. I—”

Anders was already gone, the door of his small sleeping space slamming slamming in his wake.

> Anders was back in the mansion. Fenris had guests, and he had to act. It was a small act, he told himself. Fetching wine and kneeling quietly in corners. Small acts of healing for magisters who thought that social events for an excuse for indigestion. Small humiliations, easily born. He was left to himself, afterwards. Fenris would give him that. Varania would return from sparring with a smile and a sprain, and he would still be safe.
> 
> He saw his master’s guest.
> 
> Denarius, walking across the atrium as if it was his own, while Fenris scowled from a couch. The older magister looked sleek and contented, and Anders’s hands shook, spilling the wine he carried. The tiles splashed with red. Denarius laughed, and was at his side in a lurching, breathless second, backhanding him across the face. The tray fell. Glass splintered. 
> 
> “You have done _terribly_ with him, little wolf. I’m not surprised.” 
> 
> “Do not touch him again.” Fenris, outraged and on his feet, half strangled on his own gasp as Denarius let his hand close gently about Anders’s throat. Anders whimpered. 
> 
> “This one has been broken before,” Denarius said conversationally, fingers tightening. “Or nearly so. See how he just stands there, Fenris. He _waits_ for this. He expects it. Don’t you, pretty thing?” He pushed, and Anders had to fall to his knees or risk choking. Denarius’s hand left his throat, tangling in his hair. “You wait for it,” he said, smile gentle. “And your master stands there, mute, because _he_ expects it, too. He was a good little slave. Castor doesn’t usually keep children, but he and his sister made a delightful pair.” 
> 
> Anders could feel the heat from Denarius’s skin. Raw silk brushed his cheek and snagged there. The hand in his hair pushed, and there was a new weight on his back, the air thick with ragged breathing. There was lyrium in it, the sharp-sweet stink making him choke. All rust and bitter almonds, mixing with human sweat and the spilled wine. 
> 
> “He’ll do anything not to be kept in the dark.” 
> 
> Not Fenris’s voice. Not Denarius. Broad Ferelden vowels and the cold reek of wet stone. Lips against the back of his neck. A wet slick of tongue that made him gag. 
> 
> “He’ll do anything you ask.” 
> 
> His throat was caught again, other hands tugging at his clothes. He felt the shift of Denarius’s hips and new pressure on his face, the world gone soundless and sightless and stretching away from him. He tried to move. Tried to cry out. Tried to smash himself against the tiles. 
> 
> “ _ **Enough**_.” 
> 
> The world shattered. Denarius was gone. The Templar and the wine and the mansion was gone, his world twisting over into sunlight and tree-shade and Fenris’s voice. His old voice, without the rasp of grief that Funalis had left just for him. Anders felt bits of the dream scatter harmlessly past his face, could imagine it as ash. He still wanted to sob. 
> 
> “Get out of my head.” 
> 
> “It was a nightmare,” Fenris said, the world swirling around him. “Easily dealt with.” 
> 
> “For a _somniari_.”
> 
> Anders could feel the nightmare gathering itself at his feet. It would stretch up to cover him again. He knew it. 
> 
> “Get out of my head. _Now._ ”

  
Anders woke with tears running down his face. Fenris was shaking him, gentle and insistent and intolerable. He jerked back, head hitting the wall with a crack, white spots flaring in the dark.

“ _Fasta vass_. Anders. Enough.” The elf’s voice was thick with sleep. 

“You don’t—” Anders gasped. His words were sobs. It felt like the world was trapped in his throat. He still felt fingers there. “You _can’t_ —you can’t-you-can’t-you- _can’t—_ ”

Fenris moved, and Anders found that he was pulled tight against the other man’s chest. His own heartbeat loud in his ears, and Fenris’s hands on his back, slow and soothing and shaking, just a little. He was kneeling, taller than Anders for this close, ridiculous instant, lips moving in a steady stream of curses that fell, warm and light, against his hair. 

“I have wronged you,” he said. Distinct. His hands dropped away, and the bed creaked as he left it. By the time Anders looked up, the other mage was gone. 

And Anders found he could breathe.

* * *

_3\. Predator, prey_

“Don’t like Darktown? Die and make room.” 

Nox limped through the small underground city, and wondered where she was going to die. The beggar woman’s caustic remark, apparently addressed to the air, made her smile, even as she dragged herself through rotten wood and muck that couldn’t decide if it were mold or algae. Her leg throbbed in a slow, sickly way; the pain coiling up around her stomach. She had a stolen sword; it grew heavier with every lurch, every corner. People watched her, eyes bright in the gloom. 

_They know a dying animal_. 

One would attack soon. One, or two, or five. They would see her and risk themselves for her sword and her strangeness, and something in her would rise up and spit and defend itself, which meant that at least some would die before her leg gave out and they had the sense to cut her throat.

Nox had killed a lot of people. Denarius liked to show her off, even when they barely stayed in the same place long enough to take a house. They would see her, armored in black and blindfolded, and then they would cry out as their blood called to the markings in her skin. She remembered a phalanx of Qunari crumpling behind them as Denarius pushed her towards another dock, another boat. She remembered screams, the tug of lyrium from bone and muscle and skin, her heart crying _master_ and _monster_ and the way her body had fallen, loose and light. She did not remember the cut that was killing her. She remembered waking alone. 

Now, she was in Darktown with a poisoned gash in her leg. This was better. She pushed off walls and tripped over crates, and a scrawny human man reached out, snatching at her arm, his dagger nothing more than broken glass wrapped in sacking. It caught her shoulder. Nox hissed. 

“I’ll make this easy for you, knife ear,” the man said. “Quiet and quick.” 

Her stomach roiled as lyrium reacted to the pathetic weapon. She didn’t look. She didn’t need to. The cramped space filled with burning hair, the copper reek of blood. The man gurgled softly, dropping at her feet. Nox left him. He should have been quicker, should have cut deeper. Then, there might be quiet. 

When a wall gave under her weight, the air heavy with the crash and the dust and a surprised cry that was not her own, Nox let herself fall and prayed that she would faint.

* * *

_4\. Promises to keep_

“This may be hard to believe,” Isabela said, smiling at Fenris over whiskey as she sat at the Hanged Man’s main bar, “But I’ve kept my promises.”

“I don’t know you well enough to ascertain whether this is meant to be surprising,” said the magister. He stood by her seat, and scowled down into her drink. He did not look well. 

“Do you _ever_ joke?” 

"Was something amusing?” 

Isabela groaned, shaking her head. “You’re terrible. And Anders is no better, these days. Where _is_ sparklefingers, by the way? He might want to hear this.”

“Anders is out.” Fenris said shortly. 

“Ah.” Isabela smiled. “Lovers quarrel. I see. Well, you tell him—” she stopped. Tilted her head up for a better view. “Wait,” she said. “Are you blushing?” 

“Isabela,” he said. “Desist.” 

“You _are._ And it’s precious _._ ” She grinned up at him. “For that, I’ll even buy you another drink. You’re the prettiest, most ridiculous thing I’ve seen all day. 

“No amount of the watered piss common to this establishment is going to make you less annoying.” 

The pirate sighed. She made sure it was expansive. “You brought me here, and I promised I’d keep an ear out,” she said. “New folks have come to Hightown, and one of them seems to be your Denarius. Who is, as it happens, looking _very_ hard for a missing slave.” 

As Isabela watched Fenris, she thought that she had never seen anyone look up so fast from her chest. His eyes were wide when they met hers. Bright and feverish and very, very green. 

“He’s gathering a party at his house tonight,” Isabela continued. “I take it that you want to interfere?” She shifted in her seat, nodding towards a small table where Varric was holding court, with admirable assistance from his chest hair. Bianca gleamed softly beside him. “I’ve come to know some _very_ interfering people.”


	24. Quicksilver and linen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nox takes stock of her surrounds, and people start to glow.

1.  _Lyrium song_

Bethany woke, mouth full of mouldering sawdust, when a body hit floor. One wall was a splintered mess. A sword that looked to be half her height skittered over the ground.

She did not scream. Which was _stupid_ , she thought. Even here. Screaming was the sane and rational thing to do. Instead, she shot out of bed and ran to the shape on her floor, pulling barrier magic and expecting pursuit.

None came. The body groaned.

Her eyes were still stuck from sleep. She blinked. The shape resolved into a woman—an elf, with a notch in one long, tapered ear. Bethany knelt, taking in the jagged cut across one thigh that leaked pus and too-dark blood that made her teeth ache in the sympathy. She was a mess of different armour—the cut was on her left leg, which had been braced in nothing more than rough leather. One gauntlet was chased silverite, the breastplate a dingy, battered scale that Bethany had seen on less fortunate Coterie members, She imagined a desperate, unbalanced flight, the elvhen woman picking up armour piecemeal and had to deal with different weights and buckles and fits.  She had no helm. Ragged, silvery hair spilled across the healer’s floor.

“The door was j _ust_ to the left,” she muttered, sighing. Bethany leaned forward to brush a strand from her forehead. When she touched the woman’s skin, fingers went numb.

Markings flared. A slow, nauseating crawl of light over the ravaged face, and any exposed skin from her neck to her feet. Something pulled, and Bethany felt her own magic gape and twist and flare. Justice shuddered, slow and distinct. With it, Bethany felt aware of her own, small and desperate self for the first time in years. 

 _Singing_ , she heard. A faint, dazed murmur that had nothing of her father in it. _It’s singing._

“No,  _she’s_  dying,” Bethany said, faint. She forced her fingers to move, gritting her teeth and feeling fevered skin beneath the sparks. Slowly, Bethany let the barrier magic fade, instead drawing on the strength she’d need to lift the poorly armoured stranger to a bed. 

* * *

  
_2\. Linen binding_  
  
Nox opened her eyes to low beams and cupboards filled with bandages, their doors slightly askew. A spider—a perfectly ordinary one, she saw, with some relief: the size of half her fist, and not the size of a small pony—wove industriously across a corner of the ceiling.

Her skin did not hurt. That was wrong. Shivering, she tried to sit. The room swooped and bile rose in her throat, but Nox managed it, catching sight of her own leg, swathed from knee to mid-thigh in clean linen.

Nox went cold.

Her skin was wrong. The room was wrong. It was shabby; it still had the damp, stale air of Darktown. The air came thickly through a large hole in the wall. Denarius would never venture beneath the city by choice, but they had moved to many strange places over the years. Sometimes, the told her to hide, and swore over names she did not recognise but that, apparently, he wished she had killed. She had run, after Par Vollen. Nox ran fast, and hard, and did not even know why, and now she was here. In a bed, with bandages.  

Denarius always healed her before he punished her. 

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

A woman had come in through another small door. She was tall—all humans were tall—and everything about her was warm, and brown. Her hair, her eyes, the undertones to her skin. She was smiling. Nox felt the power in her in a spike of needles across her forehead, arms, and back. She tensed, waiting for a pull: a drain, something to force an ugly link between the mage and the lyrium she bore.

“Stay back, mage.”

* * *

  
_3\. Safe spaces_  
  
“Stay back, mage.”

Bethany’s patient was sitting up. Her lips peeled back from her teeth and the complex patterns in her skin now flared a steady, eye-smarting white. The healer sighed, raising both hands slowly, palms up. “You’re in a clinic,” she said. “You were hurt.” She winced, remembering static and the sting she’d felt trying to heal that small, muscular body. Her muscles still ached from it. “Still are, actually,” she amended. “I had to stitch you. You’ll need to—”

“I don’t know who you are or how I got here,” said the elf, hoarse and glaring and, Bethany thought, just a little bit panicked. “But keep your distance. I can hurt you. Do you work for him?”

Her voice cracked. Bethany had to close her eyes, Justice stirring uneasily and filling her mouth with the now-familiar storm. She knew when the woman saw. She heard a strangled noise, and felt something try and clutch her, deep in the blood. Heat, she felt. Heat and a rage that made Justice push up inside.

**_No one shall touch you._ **

“Don’t—” Bethany grit out, unsure if she spoke to her patient or herself. “Try. Anything.”

The heat withdrew. Bethany opened her eyes and found that the woman had pressed herself tight to the wall. She stared, face drained of colour, white showing about the eyes.

“What are you?”

That question was, Bethany thought, a long time coming. She bit back a laugh, though tendrils of it slipped up into her voice. “Worried about you,” she said, keeping the words slow and careful. “My name is Bethany. I work here. I heal people. It’s free, and you’re safe. You got here through my wall.” She watched the woman’s eyes dart to the large hole to their left, her movements tight.

“I also,” she said, more gently, “Don’t know who you’re talking about. I work for myself. Though,” she added, unable to stop a smile, “Best not tell the Coterie that.”

* * *

  _4\. A test of will_  
  
The woman was  _smiling._

Power had cracked through her soft, human body like the molten rock on Seheron. Her eyes had flashed blue: no iris, no white, not even a pupil. Her blood had taken Nox’s horrible gift like it was nothing. And now she smiled, and told odd, stilted jokes.

“It’s all right,” she said. “You’re truly safe.”

Nox glared. “I’m not a horse you need to gentle.”

“That’s good,” said the woman. Bethany. “I’m hopeless with them. They don’t like me at all.”

“Denarius. The magister, Denarius.” Nox forced the words out. “Do you work for him? If you lie, human—”

“—Maker, no. I’ve never met a magister. They’re not exactly common in Ferelden.” Bethany paused, titling her head to the side. “I didn’t think they were common to  _Kirkwall_ , either.”

“He…” Nox cleared her throat. “He follows. He always does, sooner or later.”

Bethany tugged a blanket straight on one of the unocupied beds. “I have friends—” a slight hesitation on the word — “Who do a good job at making this place hard to find.”

Nox laughed. A soft, surprised, tired sound that had the mage turn concerned eyes on her. She felt a smile twist her mouth. “He is a magister,” she said. "I am his property. He’ll just as likely go through your other wall.”

_Property._

The word seemed to catch at Bethany. Nox watched in slow fascination as the other woman’s shoulders stiffened and her chin went up, the eerie blue light breaking across her face, her neck, even her fingertips. It glowed through the rough weave of her clothing, liming every seam and worn patch and the holes in one boot.

“I suffer no such thing.”

“Mage—”

“People are _safe_ here.”

“Mage,” Nox said, loud and fast and trying to guess the distance between her bed and the sword that lay, dull-edged and stolen and wonderfully _solid_ , by the hole in the clinic. “You are _glowing_.”

Silence.

“Justice,” Bethany said. “Back. _Off._ ” She sounded mildly exasperated. And she sagged against the empty bed, sitting with a hard thump.

“So you see,” she said, after a minute that seemed to be spent in deep contemplation of her floor. “You’re not the only one who glows when she’s angry.”

“What _are_ you?” Nox breathed. She could not stop staring at the woman’s eyes, though every instinct told her run. Again and always. Run. “Abomination,” she decided. “You are not right.”

The abomination shook her head, hair escaping a low queue to fall about her face. “So says the nameless woman who, as far as I can tell, has lyrium tattooed into her skin.”

Nox sneered. “That’s impossible.”

“ _Exactly_ —”

“—it was poured into wounds my master carved into my flesh,” she said starkly, taking small enjoyment from the other woman’s shock. It made her very young. “I remember that much. A tattoo needle wouldn’t make the right sort of space.”

Her leg twinged. Her throat was raw, and Bethany looked as if she might throw up or cry. The escaped slave sighed, and let her head press into the wall.

“My name,” she said. “Is Nox. If what you say is true, than I would be…grateful, if I could rest.”

“So,” Bethany murmured. “You _do_ listen.”

“Once I am sufficiently rested,” Nox added, ignoring all commentary and wincing as her Trade ( _when did I learn to speak this language? Why did I learn so poorly?)_ came out stilted and over-formal. “I might be able to fix the hole in your wall.”

* * *

  _5\. Quicksilver risks_

“They found him.”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“That doesn’t matter. Mage. They _found him.”_

When Anders turned around, he found that Fenris had filled the room. He paced. He fidgeted. His hair fell into his eyes. A gentle cacophony of thumps and creaks and curses, along with sounds of breaking class that characterized the Hanged Man during the day, rose up through the floorboards. Anders watched the other man’s hands. He fisted air.

Anders found he was smiling despite himself and a head full of nightmares. “More words, please.”

“Denarius. He has a mansion in his city. And he—” Fenris broke off, striding the short distance to Anders’s perch at the lopsided desk gracing his room. “He’s looking for an escaped slave. Valuable. _Distinctive._ Since Par Vollen.”

Ander’s breath caught. “That long? And you think—”

“I think,” said Fenris, lips quirking in the smallest of smiles. “My sister is better at escaping than others of my acquaintance.”

“Acquaintance.”

The magister raised an eyebrow, smile slipping to a smirk. “That’s where you take umbrage, Anders?”

“ _Maker_ , you’re an ass.” Old words, and almost comfortable. They slipped out.

Anders kissed him.


	25. Luck and heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Fenris are given a moment to themselves, and Bethany's clinic takes a lot of damage.

_1\. Luck and heroes_

  
Anders kissed him as as if it were easy. Which meant, in a strange way, that it was. Simple warmth and pressure; the small weight of Anders’s hand resting against the side of his face. Fenris could feel the other man’s smile as he let his own hands slide up into Anders’s hair.

He fisted, slowly. The healer groaned, and it  _caught_ at him, and it was simple to open his mouth and let the world narrow to shared air: a sudden suck and pull and press of teeth that made them both gasp. Easy to press and swallow and, with his skin too tight and his heartbeat overloud in his ears, suddenly hard to pull away.

Anders rested his forehead against his own, and Fenris let his hands fall to the other mage’s shoulders. His ears burned. He swallowed.

“You are an  _ass_ ,” Anders said, again. “You’re an interfering, stubborn, domineering, argumentative—”

“— _I’m_ argumentative?”

“ _Argumentative_  ass, Maker help me, and it is really just rude that you kiss as well as I thought you would.”

Fenris stepped back, scowling. “That makes no sense.”

Anders grinned, and the odd pull Fenris had always felt, seeing that bright, fey expression, made new sense. He gritted his teeth against a blush.

“I’m free,” said Anders.

“And reckless.”

“Always was.” Anders shrugged, fingers tapping his lower lip. “But you  _didn’t_ ask a demon to eat me, so I’d call it a success.”

“Your expectations of me are…bizarre.” Fenris sighed, and was proud that his voice did not betray him. “Why do this?”

“For luck,” Anders offered. “Nothing else has helped with Denarius so far.”

Fenris laughed. “A fine distraction.”

“No, it’s true!” Anders’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Heroic kisses before final battles. You’ve seen the plays.” He shrugged again. “For luck. For joy. Because I’m not afraid of you. Because I  _can—”_

Another kiss. A shock of pride as Anders’s surprised laugh became something soft and deep and shaking. Cautious, curious, he let his hands move, spanning man’s back and shoulder, his chest. He felt the slip and pull as Anders swallowed, Fenris’s fingers light against the hollow at his throat. Slow, wondering, he drew his hand up, grazed the edge of his thumb across one sharp cheekbone.

When they broke apart again, neither could speak. But Fenris nodded, and Anders took Fenris’s hands in his.

* * *

  
_2\. Bait and switch_

Hawke stood outside the tall, narrow, Hightown mansion, letting the building’s shadows cloak as much of her and her growing audience as it could. Eying the motley group, she could not help a sigh.

Varric was there, Bianca polished to a shine. Isabela, willing to help out for the price of a pint and a promise to chase something lost and valuable down Kirkwall’s dark alleys, was laughing as Merrill asked her about the practicalities of fighting in high boots. Her two leads—the mages who, so-said the pirate, would pay very well for Hawke’s help, seemed bedraggled and tense. Varric shook his head and grinned at the sight of them. His narrative hunch.

Hawke straightened her shoulders, looking up at the taller of the two. “Isabela says you’re a healer.”

“I am,” he said. He looked a little like he was fighting the urge to salute, which made her grin. That, and relief. For all that Kirkwall—Gallows, slave statues, and overshined Templars all—seemed peculiarly oblivious to mages and their large assortment of blindingly obvious magical staves, asking Bethany to throw power about still felt stupid.

The thought felt like Carver. Hawke grimaced. “Good,” she managed. “Glad to have you. I’m Hawke.”

"Anders,” said the healer.

"She keeps her first name in a box, somewhere.”

“Varric—”

“—what? It gives you an air of mystery.”

“We should move on.” The other stranger glared at them, face drawn under torchlight. His robes flapped. Hawke let her head list to the side, eying him.

“You must be Fenris.”

He nodded. “Isabela said you have a sister,” he said, abrupt.

Hawke’s jaw clenched, tight enough that pain spiked up behind her eyes. “Isabela,” she said, watching as the pirate fit an arm briefly about Merrill’s waist, “Says a _lot_ of things, apparently.”

“This magister has mine,” he said, and turned to mansion without a backward glance.

* * *

 

_3\. Small horrors_

Inside, the world narrowed to creaks in the floorboards and Shades in the shadows. Fenris stalked ahead, seeming to pull half of the ghastly things apart just by glaring at them. Merrill tended to make the remaining creatures explode. There had been slavers by the doorway. They’d taken one look at Fenris and started shouting in Tevene. Easily dealt with.

“Why is it,” Hawke asked the air at large as she wiped blood from her face, “That I am always _surrounded_ by mages. And demons. Mage demons.”

“Your warm and welcoming personality?”

She groaned. “Shut it, Varric.”

“Just putting it out there.”

“It _is_ very easy to follow you.” Merrill was breathing hard, fumbling at her belt for a mana draught as the walls dripped from her latest spell. “You’ve got a way of making all sorts of messy things simple. It’s soothing!” She paused. “Or it would be, if there were fewer bodies.”

“Maker help us all.”

“ _Venhedis_.” Fenris turned to face her, looking like he wanted to spit. “I don’t think he is even here.”

* * *

 

_4\. A promise from the Coterie_

“Healer? Healer! Healer Bethany.”

A pack Coterie grunts, breathless and glaring, were not the most alarming things Bethany had seen that day. That honour still went to the hole in her wall, the woman on the pallet and the story she had to tell. But it did give her pause.

“Yes?”

The boy in the lead, narrow faced and ragged, often seen at Athenril’s elbow, was looking uneasily at her wall.

“There’s a bloody great—”

“Yes, I know. What _is_ it?”

“Marc says Jake saw Aoife shouting about a Tevinter. _Here._ And coming for you.” He paused. “Coming this way, anyroad.”

“That’s not—” she stopped. Nox was sitting straight up, struggling to move her bandaged legs.

“Already? And _here_?” As Bethany turned towards her, she spat off the side of the bed, voice breaking. “He’d come all the way into _filth_ for the markings.

The Coterie kid shifted. “He’s looking for something,” he said. “And the boss doesn’t want you messed with, see. So she—”

“Yes, I see.” Bethany smiled. “If she sent you to fight, I won’t turn you away.”

“He’ll kill you _all_.” Nox’s voice was despairing. The boy flinched. The men and women behind him shifted their axes and knives, muttering.

“Tevinter's looking for a face,” she heard. “A face like that.”

Bethany sighed. “Maker,” she muttered. “The _idiocy_. Excuse me a minute.” She turned, meeting Nox’s distraught eyes.

“I told you that people made sure I was safe, here. We have warning. No one will just come and _take_ you.”

“You have no idea.”

“No.” Bethany sighed again, resisting the urge to touch the other woman. Touch, she thought, would be no reassurance to her. “But I manage. You stay there. I don’t want you opening up that leg and bleeding on everything.”

* * *

 

  
_5\. Right hand and left_

“Not here?” Hawke’s eyes flashed, but she kept her tone level. “Where, if not here. And how do you know?”

 _Too long to explain._ Fenris sighed, watching in no small amazement as the others spread out around them, dispatching Denarius’s horrors. “He’s close enough that I can sense him,” he said, watching her face for skepticism. He could feel Anders at his back, the glyphs and shields the healer cast crackling on the edges of his awareness. “But he’s not _here_. It’s…underneath, somehow.”

“Underneath.”

“Yes. There are many caves under this city.”

“Oh, Maker’s breath.” Hawke ran a hand through her black hair, wincing as it tangled in a gauntlet. “Darktown.”

They ran.

* * *

 

_6\. Fear and smoke and Bianca’s regards_

Men and horrors poured into the clinic, and the first time one of them stiffened and died, smoke leaking from her mouth, Bethany barely noticed. Some nasty Coterie mage trick. The sort that Athenril had always hoped Bethany might learn.

When twelve slavers dropped in a semicircle around her, just as her own magic froze what looked like a rage demon to the spot, she turned to find Nox snarling from a corner of the bed. Her leg was bleeding freely again, and she shook.

“Did you just—”

“—shut up,” Nox shot back. “This is not important.”

“It _looked_ like—”

“_-He’s not here yet.” Nox voice had grown hoarse. A shade slipped through a crack in the opposite wall. Bethany hissed, pulling more cold to stop it. Her temples throbbed.

New screams, and it was the Coterie who fell, bleeding and coughing and dying as a tall, beared man stepped through the hole in the wall, pale eyes overbright.

“ _There_ you are, little fox.”

He was smiling. Smiling and distracted. Bethany shifted her stance, hands tight around her staff as she pulled force and threw it at him, raw and direct and one of the first spells Justice had ever given her, wearing her father’s body. He staggered, pressed to the ground.

Her mouth tasted of metal. The throb in her temples turned into something spiked and jittery and three deep breaths short of a migraine. But she smiled.

Until her breath caught, deep in her chest, and her throat started to burn.

“Finish it, Nox.”

Bethany forced herself to turn. Nox stared at her, shoulders slumped, face slack. Tears dripped from her nose, off her chin.

“Finish it,” said the magister. He made back to his feet as Bethany felt her pulse speed up, her throat clench and close. “It’s past time to come home.”

“… _no_.”

A tiny whisper, thick with rage. Bethany heard it. Justice heard it, and there was a hitch in the fire. A small, dark pause where Bethany could drag in a breath.

She wasn’t sure which one of them started to scream.

***

“I think,” said Isabela, grabbing Merrill by the forearms and lifting her over a corpse, “We’re heading in the right direction.”

“I hope not.” Hawke’s face was set.

And Fenris, running ahead, paid no attention.

***

Bethany let a sleep spell hit Nox square in the chest, ozone staining the air.

“I’m sorry,” Bethany whispered, throat raw. The magister—Denarius, she supposed, started to laugh.

“What _are_ you?” he asked, apparently heedless that none of his party were alive to flank him. They, with every single Coterie member, were sprawled about the clinic, together or in pieces. Bethany, seeing it all in this brief respite, wanted to be sick.

“Not an abomination, I think.” Denarius stepped closer, expression quizzical. “But certainly carrying—”

“ _ **You will die, magister**_ **.** ” The words were torn from her, furious and hardly her own.

“Yes, dear girl.” Denarius sounded delighted. He stepped over another body, carefully hitching up his robe. “There it is. A spirit. Perhaps I will take you with me.”

A quarrel buried itself in his shoulder. Bethany pushed him back as hard she could, as hard as the pain and fear allowed.

It was hard enough. Another wall splintered.

She heard a cry of triumph. Her sister’s voice blending with the push and strike of another’s magic. Something that tasted of blood and pine needles. Merrill.

She heard Varric laughing, and saw flashes of steel as her sister and another woman she did not know circled the enemy mage, who was glaring fire and fury at someone whose magic pulled and swirled and made him stumble backwards, choking and pale. There two of him, wavering around the black spots that were rapidly filling her vision.

Mana drain. Even Justice had its limits. Falling against Nox’s bed, she watched as the two unknown mages stared each other down, and she tried to cry out when she felt Denarius reach, shaking and sick, for what felt like one new spell.

Her voice was gone.

 Light flooded the world.

 


	26. Waking up amongst the rubble

_1\. Fight and fall_  

Denarius spat blood. One of Hawke’s daggers was lodged in his kidney.

Anders saw him stagger, felt the pull of the injuries as he focused his own gifts on the gash by Merrill’s eye; the burns across Fenris’s chest and Varric’s hands. He felt the Fade twist as Fenris moved, blocking demons and turning them against their master.

He felt another presence, bright and corrosively clean, like acid etching metal. Blue light and fierce emotion that he tasted but could not place. It twined around little Bethany Hawke, who lashed out with enough force magic to keep a perfect circle about herself and a body that lay by her feet. He sensed when she healed her sister’s bleeding scalp; cried out, in turn, at the touch of that crackling, too-sharp energy on his own body.

She had healed a fracture that had started to spider out across his shin.

“Mage?”

Fenris’s voice, slightly slurred as he fought half in and half out of the Fade.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” The dark space was all dust and ice, teeming with clawing hands and crossbow bolts and the terrible blue light. Denarius laughed. Denarius was dying.

Denarius had one more dose of lyrium. Anders saw him take it. Saw the swallow and the smile. Felt a new spell gain shape and weight just as Fenris fell, boneless and open eyed, to the floor.

 _He’s in the Fade_ , he thought. _He’ll win in the Fade._

None of these thoughts, sensible or hopeful or sane, kept him from running to the other mage. And, as the floor roiled beneath him and something punched through his upper back, he couldn’t help a small, wicked sense of vindication.

It made him laugh, even as the world turned grey about all its edges and his mouth filled with blood.

* * *

  _2\. Voices in the dark_

> _(“Okay. Everyone who’s still alive, say: ‘…ugh.’”)_

Denarius was gone. It was the sort of power that won you awards in Minrathous. Gold, or slaves, or votes. And he was gone.

Fenris was dazed. It was difficult to keep his awareness _out_ of the Fade—all scars and split seams and ragged edges after the fighting. His throat was tight. Something burned there—small and heavy and familiar. All the demons were gone. And slavers. There had been slavers. Mercenaries. Now there were bodies. That was right.

Denarius was gone.

Someone whimpered. Someone was laying across his chest.

> _(“_ Balls. _”_
> 
> _“Close enough, Rivaini. Close enough.”)_

Fenris’s hand scrabbled, catching in cloth and a fine spill of hair. Skin twitched. When Fenris’s hand found the jagged wooden spike, stuck deep in its shoulder, the body moaned. And Fenris could see.

“Mage? _Anders_.”

A small, pained laugh. “People write a lot of things about somniari,” Anders said, the words felt more than heard as Fenris tried to sit, to ease the other man, “But no one _ever_ mentions the bit where you fall asleep when you fight. I can see why.”

Anders was shaking. Fenris managed to lift him, but the man cried out, new sweat slicking his face—white and drawn, and slightly blue at the lips. He shifted, letting Anders fall forward against his chest. “You will be the death of me.”

Anders groaned. “Beg to differ.”

> _(“I’m here, too, Varric. Oh - er - ‘…ugh,’ I mean. That’s right, isn’t it? And Hawke’s here, with Bethany. But I think she’s fainted.”_
> 
> _“Maker’s tits, what_ was _that thing?”_
> 
> _“No idea, Hawke. Maybe the elf knows. Fenris?”)_

Pain and anger and voices in the dark.

“The mage needs healing,” he said, glad when it raised an echo. “ _Now_.”

* * *

_3\. Waking up amongst the rubble_

Bethany woke slowly, and with her head in someone’s lap. Hawke knelt at her side, and held both her hands.

“Marian?”

“We must,” the older woman said, smile slow as she shook her head, and sawdust flying from her hair, “Go visit mother like good little children. We’ll have dinner. We’ll annoy Gamlen. We will _say nothing_ about this. What do you think?”

Bethany groaned. Another hand, scarred and tanned and small, brushed hair off her forehead.

“She’s babbling, sweetness. Don’t try and move.”

Bethany did shift, tilting her head back to catch a smiling face and, she quickly saw, even with a headache and at the odd angle, rather marvelous breasts. She blushed.

Isabela chuckled, stroking her hair again. “You were out a while,” she said. “I thought you should at least wake up in a nice place.”

“ _Isabela—”_

“—Oh, hush, Hawke. I _like_ her. She’s so very—”

“Back. Off.”

Bethany struggled into a sitting position, squeezing Hawke’s hands before releasing them. She turned, and managed a weary smile for Isabela, who winked.

“You’re…something,” she said, blushing again at her own idiocy.

“I’ve rooms at the Hanged Man,” said the pirate. “They’re even nicer than this floor.”

“What happened?” Bethany swallowed, clutching at her head. “Where are the others? Denarius! There was—” slowly, she looked around the room, strewn with bodies and splinters and thick with old blood. “ _Maker_.”

“Turns out,” Hawke said, taking Bethany’s hands again, “The bastard had a translocation spell.” She made a face. “That is what it’s called, isn’t it? Merrill tried to explain. A lot of glowing light, feeling like your stomach is trying to strangle you, and then—” a small laugh, Bethany’s hands dropped to her lap as Hawke made a vague, fluttery gesture. “Boom.”

“He’s gone?” It came out as a squeak. “But what about—?”

“He’s got one of my best knives in his kidney,” Hawke said. “And Fenris did—” she swallowed. “ _Something_ horrible and possibly deadly—”

“—there was high pitched screaming.” Varric appeared out of the dark, resting a hand briefly on Hawke’s shoulder. “But then the bastard disappeared.”

“And Nox?” Panic clawed, as she remembered the despair and rage in the other woman’s eyes. The breathtaking certaintly, when Denarius had ordered her to strike, that all would be lost.

“Nox?” Hawke looked quzzical. “What are you talking about, Beth? No, _don’t—”_

Bethany stood. “Nox,” she said again. “She’s an elf. Injured. Denarius came here to find her.”

“I…am here.”

The words were soft. Slow, and wondering. Bethany turned, and saw the white haired elvhen woman struggling to her own feet, while Bethany’s concerned audience made a variety of strangled-shocked-surprised noises that made Bethany want to smile. Even here.

“Oh,” she heard, Isabela’s voice hushed and warm in the dark. “How did I miss _you_?”

Bethany ignored her. “Are you all right?”

Nox passed a hand over eyes, the other braced on the wall. “You used magic on me.”

“Yes,” Bethany said, level. “You were trying to kill me.”

Nox stared at the wreckage.

“Well,” Bethany said. “Your leg is holding up well. There’s _that_.”

“I don’t—” But whatever Nox was about to say was cut off, as two more figures limped into view, the smell of health potions and lyrium thick about them, Merrill at their heels. The smaller of the two, an elf with dark hair gone white the sawdust, sticking up from blood, spoke. The sounds were tumbled and strange. Breathless. Cracked. And he was staring at Nox.

“ _Varania_?”


	27. foxes and wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris finds his sister.

_1\. Curses_

“ _Varania_?”

 The world had turned to nonsense syllables, and people were staring.

 Nox stared right back. Her leg ached. Her throat was raw and her head felt thick with other people’s magic. She owed her life to an abomination and a hoarde of strangers had chased off her master while she slept. Her monster. Her hands fisted at her sides.

 The word came again.

 “Varania. It — it really is you.”

 It was the elf who spoke. Tall for their kind; all eyes and shock and hunched shoulders, his voice rough under fluent Tevene. She saw others step back, hearing it. Bethany Hawke did not. Her eyes were fixed on the rest of them, level and unblinking. Nox imagined the blue light just beneath her skin.

 “I am nothing to you, magister.” She could see that much. See it in his bearing, in his robes, in the scant pieces of jewellery. She felt her lip curl.

 “He’s your brother.” New words. A lighter voice. Nox let her gaze flick from the magister to the tall human at his side. He was sweating, face grey in the small light left in the wreckage.

 Nox laughed. It was harsh and a little ridiculous, and it leaked out instead of breath.

"My _brother?"_ The words came out a gasp. She shook her head. "No, human. Magisters' sisters aren't half so valuable."

 A dwarf in the company stepped forward, palms up. "This doesn't sound like a conversation for smoking corpses," he said. "Maybe we all should—"

 "—No." The tall human again, eyes wide and hurt. "Maker, Varania. Just _look_ at him. Fenris and I have been trying to find you for a year."

  _Fenris._ She knew that name. She repeated it, the syllables heavy in her mouth. _Look_ at him, the human said. And look she did, watching as his chin lifted and his eyes met her own and a silence stretched. She looked at him, and laughed.

 " _You_ ," she said. "The scandal of Minrathous? The _liberati_ who couldn't keep his hands off a pretty slave?" Her words hit. She watched it happen. White lines formed about the human's mouth, while the magister's eyes turned bleak. She reached out, and snatched the human's right hand, thumb pressing into the scar she found there.

 "A loyal, pretty slave, I see," she said. Disguist roiled deep in her belly. She dropped the hand, backing up against one of the remaining walls. Splinters dug into her shoulders. "Do you know how many people I've had to kill to keep away from you, _little wolf_?" Her master's words stuck in her throat. "Denarius _hates_ you so." She swallowed. Looked again at the angry eyes and narrow face. The hands balled into fists. 

 "Are you telling me," she whispered, "That he made _me_ from that hate? Truly?" Her lips quirked. A horrified smile. "I have no idea who Varania was, magister. But she had no luck in brothers." 

* * *

 

2\. _Vows_

It took both Hawke sisters to break the tableau, Marian snatching up members of the party who needed no more healing than a drink, while Bethany worked quietly on torn muscles and blooming concussions, keeping herself between the magister at Nox whenever she could.

Bethany caught Varric studying Nox’s face, and then Fenris’s, as he helped clear the floor. She knew it because she was doing the same, searching out shared cheekbones and and the tilts to their heads; remembering the argument and how the colours in their voices had blended and matched through the vitriol.

 Merrill picked up fallen bottles and looked at the pair as if she could find their story through their blood. Which, Bethany reflected, was probably exactly what she _could_ do, if given the chance. She smiled in an abstracted way when she noticed Bethany watching, shaking her head.

“This is all rather messy, isn’t it? Your poor clinic.”

 “I can fix this,” she said. “It only took me a few days to learn how to hammer straight.”

 “We’ll all help,” said Hawke.

 Isabela grimaced, wiping blood from a dagger and eying a dubious streak on one wall. “So spake the fearless leader.”

 Bethany snorted. “Spake?”

 “Yes, spake. Your sister’s got her Captain voice on. I should know.”

 Hawke groaned. "There are moments when I look at you all and think—“

 “—that we’re all very pretty?” Merrill smiled up at Hawke, moving to help her right a fallen shelf. “I think that, sometimes.”

 Varric chuckled. “Daisy, sometimes you are rather wonderful.”

 “ _I_ will help,” said Nox. The room went quiet.

 Hawke turned, searching out Nox in the crowded space.

 “Will you, now?”

With an effort, Nox lifted her chin. “This is a place of healing,” she said, words a lilting mix of direct and formal. “It was destroyed by people looking for me. People _you_ killed. Denarius is injured. It will take him a long time to return. I had already told the abominat— _Bethany_ , that I would assist. The offer is still there, and I am strong.”

 Hawke’s eyes were narrowed. “What did you just call my sister?”

Nox flushed. “I—”

 “Go on. You heard me.”

 “It’s nothing!” Bethany said, sharp and loud as she stepped between the two women. “Nox and I had a misunderstanding earlier, that’s all. Don’t be an ass, Hawke.”

 The older woman’s shoulders relaxed. “It seems like you have a _lot_ of misunderstandings, Nox.”

 Nox snorted. “This is a very confusing place.”

 “You think Denarius will come back.”

 “I _hope_ he does.”

 Someone gasped behind them. Hawke, faced with the angry words, only shook her head. “Explain yourself.”

 “It needs explaining?” the elf smiled, thin and unhappy. “I will end him. I will not run again.”

 The words rang over the crowd in a way that Bethany expected Varric might re-purpose for a future cliff-hanger, if she knew him at all. Bethany sighed, and searched out Fenris’s face amongst them all.

 Neither he nor Anders were anywhere in sight.

* * *

 

  _3\. Kindness_

“Fenris, _stop_.”

 They’d travelled out of Darktown and into the night, Fenris silent and breathing hard, oblivious to the dead ends and doubled corners that kept trying to halt the pair.

 Anders, aching all over from rushed healing, had to jog to keep up.

 “Do you even know where you’re going?”

 “ _Venhedis_.”

 “Swearing. That’s a start.” Anders groaned as Fenris turned into another blind alley, reaching out to grab at his shoulder when the elf saw the wall, spat, and spun.

 “Please,” he said. “Please stop, and breathe, and—“

 “—she is gone.”

 Anders’s breath caught. Fenris reached around him, fingers finding the large rent left in his shirt from the fight and falling rubble. His skin, for all that it was a new scar crowding in over old, stung at the touch. Fenris traced the mark. Nerves sparked in new-wrong places. His stomach heaved. Anders shut his eyes.

 “You could have died today,” Fenris said, words almost without inflection. “Again.” His hand dropped, Anders’s own tightening on his shoulder, robes bunching up under his fingers.

 The healer opened his eyes. “I didn’t,” he said. “And neither did she.”

 Fenris let out a long, slow breath. “My sister,” he repeated, voice finally cracking on that single word, “Is gone.”

  Lost in a lowtown alley, Anders bent his head and licked a tear from Fenris’s face, and kissed him as he shuddered.

     


	28. the edge of dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris struggles.

1\. _Gifts freely given_

Fenris kissed Anders with the alley wall cold against his back and salt in his mouth. The taller man pressed him, all ardent hands and teeth, lips dragging over his jaw, his throat. He sucked, when he found the pulse there, and Fenris arched forward, breath spilling and hands tight on the man’s back. He no longer felt the scars. Barely felt his own fingers. All sensation was drawn up, drawn out to Anders’s hands as they slid down to his hips, and the pressure of his mouth. He cried out, and Anders laughed, soft and fast and deep.

 “Hush, love. You’ll make a scene.”

 “ _I’ll make_ —”

 “Yes.” The healer’s eyes were bright, even in the small, late hours where most colour had leeched from the world. He kissed him again, light and sweet, tongue flicking over his lower lip. “ _Maker_ ,” he breathed. Fenris, cupping his cheek with a shaking hand, felt the hot streak of a blush.

 “Your Maker has nothing to do with this,” he said. He barely recognised his own voice.

 Anders leaned into his hand, kissing the palm. His eyes closed. He was still pressed close, one hand resting against Fenris’s stomach. He let out a small, pleased noise, sucking two into his mouth.

 “ _Mage.”_ One small word, gone low with shock, and Fenris’s hips arched forward, his own fingers tightening about Anders’s wrist.

 “Do it.” Anders was grinning, breathless.

 Fenris shuddered, head falling to the other man’s shoulder, free hand moving to the back of Anders’s neck. He wondered at the movement, all weight and heat and promise. He still held Anders’s wrist.

  _A loyal, pretty slave, I see._

His breath caught. Anders swallowed, shook his head, and pulled away.

 “You’re asking why, aren’t you?” he said. His hands worked, straightening clothing, re-tying his hair—a mass of tiny steps that brought him back to rights, leaving Fenris disheveled and shivering in contrast. “I felt you change.”

“I don’t—”

Anders smiled. Crooked, true, and more than slightly miserable. “I’ve many faults,” he said. “But I’ve always been damnsure of what I want. You’re…not.”

“And you blame me?” The alley wall was damp against his back. Fenris pulled away from it, ears burning, skin too tight for his body.

Anders only sighed. “Not at all.”

* * *

 

  _2\. The edge of dreams_

Alone in his room at the Hanged Man, Fenris dreamed.

Not dreams of fire and blood and Varania’s face, though he knew the images lurked close by, with the demons who had taken to teasing him with his sister’s voice. He did not dream of Anders, nor _with_ him—something that, in the morning, would be quiet relief to them both.

Instead, the Fade was full of fragments and snatches—songs half known, in words half said. He saw demons: Rage, and Pride, along with a flickering, rare spirit of Curiosity that was almost buried under a teeming mass of Hunger. But they took no interest in him. Fenris wondered what drew them. And since he was in the Fade, and knew that wonder was movement, he found himself in the centre of them, tucked neat inside the body of a dreamer. He saw dark walls and a tiny, battered kitchen. Limp herbs struggling in the single window, and an elf who wept and said she _loved_ , da’len. She truly did, but couldn’t he _see?_

“The nightmares hurt you,” she said, face mottled with fear, back straight, shoulders tense. “Da’len, this is what those schools are for.”

“School?” He spoke with the dreamer’s voice, light and cracking as he looked at the woman.

 _His mother_ , Fenris thought, uncomfortable in the knowledge. He let himself move farther away from the dreamer, watching the scene play out. The raw Fade whispered at the edges of the dream.

“It’s a prison,” said the boy. “You know that. You’ve _run_ from that, all these years, only to give up on me now?” The boy was tall. He stared down at his mother. “I should never have told you anything.”

Mother did not look away, instead cupping his face between both her hands. “I am neither blind, nor deaf, my Feynriel,” she said. “I would still know.”

“I _hate_ you,” the boy shouted, pulling back and crying out as the Fade twisted around him, dispelling the small, dark kitchen, the mother, the floor.

“It’ll be fine,” he whispered, Fenris watching in growing wonder as the boy—the _mage_ —let a safer, quieter world form around him. “I’m safe. Dreams are dreams. I’m fine. Mother doesn’t know anything.”

“You,” Fenris said, willing himself visible amongst the other dreamer’s efforts, “Are _not_ fine.”


	29. Other people's children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nox and Anders get their bearings, while Fenris finds a pupil.

_1\. A cup of water_

It did not take long for Nox’s leg to heal. She glared at Bethany over potions, resting and stretching as asked with a fixed determination that might have made Bethany nervous, if the healer hadn’t had a near endless stream of Ferelden refugees, Carta dwarves and Coterie lackeys to see to, all clamoring over the mess of her clinic. She worked until it hurt, and then past it, half sure she could hear her own blood whisper approval when she had to pry her own stiff hands from her staff, eyes dry and tongue thick with exhaustion.

 Water went stagnant in the deeps. Blades were thin and ragged and hard to clean. Folk went home for dinner and came to her with tetanus. As word crept out, others shuffled in for a discreet apostate’s services. Bethany found herself clearing up more itches and sores than she had known existed between shamefaced adults. She blushed every time. But the pay was good, and Justice let her take the coin.

 “So many are ungrateful.”

 Bethany looked up from the wreckage of a medicine chest, where she had spent the past hour looking for salvageable vials and lengths of wood. She eyed the elvhen woman warily. Nox had barely spoken to her in over a week.

 Nox flushed. “All these people,” she muttered. “Coming in here no matter the hour, expecting you to simply be _there_ , and ready for them. Logic alone should tell them that everyone _else_ thinks the same way, and so they’re better off finding someone else. Someone less—”

“—capable?” Bethany covered a smile with her hand. “That’s very kind.” 

“Less _overrun_.”

“If it wasn’t overrun,” Bethany said, sighing. “There wouldn’t be much point. Not when the city is like this.” 

“Like what?” Nox limped over to the water barrel, drawing herself a cup and avoiding Bethany’s eye.

“Desperate,” she said. “Frightened and sad and full of people who _should_ do something, but won’t.” Bethany shook her head, setting down her tools. “I’ve never lived in a city before. I never thought it would be like this. And we’re not overrun right now, you know. It’s just us.” 

“It isn’t.” Nox sniffed. “You’ve described the world’s condition, not a particular city. To give this place a personality is fanciful and useless. And it’s just us _and_ those three old men you’ve let sleep in the corner. With the promise of another hoard tomorrow.”

“I _am_ fanciful, Nox. Haven’t you worked that out, yet? It keeps me sane.” 

“Sane.”

“Functionally sane.” 

Grimacing, Nox dipped a second cup into the barrel, and pressed it into Bethany’s hand. “You are a madwoman possessed by demons. Drink, before you fall down.” 

* * *

 

_2\. Ebb and flow_

There was a pattern in the mess and madness of the healer’s clinic. The beardless dwarf came at least once a day, with a story and a smile and an over-the-shoulder suggestion that his Hanged Man tab had room for another.

“Sunshine vouches for you,” he said. “And you’re a bit too pale and interesting for comfort.” 

The pirate swaggered in for no reason Nox could see except to make Bethany blush. Sometimes, she had her arm around another elf, dark haired and earnest and always _talking._ While the Isabela kissed Bethany on the cheek and conjured pirate ships in the dank room, or gave dramatic readings from _highly_ improbable novels, Merrill often turned her attention to Nox, who winced and gritted her teeth against the mix of sweetness and the fine scars that ran over the Dalish woman’s palms.

“Your brother is _fascinating_ , Nox,” she exclaimed. “A magister, and one of the People, if he—” 

“—that magister is not my brother.”

Limpid eyes met hers. “Yes, he is. It’s in your blood, clear as day.”

 Hawke’s presence was stormy. When she entered the clinic, she filled the whole room, pale eyes flashing as she took in patients and scaffolding. She re-hung doors. She told smaller, angrier stories. When Nox had two weeks’ worth of strength left, Hawke challenged her to a fight, eyes widening when Nox picked up the old, borrowed sword. It was still the wrong weight, but close enough for this.

 “You _use_ that thing? Look at the size of you!”

 “My true sword was left in Par Vollen. It was bigger. This…serves.”

 Hawke laughed. The two of them were standing outside the clinic, an audience creeping in and whispering bets. Hawke’s laugh, Nox thought, might be the reason so many seemed to follow the woman. Bright and fierce and reaching somewhere murky at the back of her mind, where there might have been other sparring matches such as this.

 “You’re big talk for a runaway,” Hawke said.

 Bethany sighed from the doorway. “Hawke, if you undo all my good work—”

 “I’ll be gentle, sister.”

Nox bridled. “You won’t need to, human.”

 When it was done, Nox’s body rung with pain and shaking muscle, but the rogue still looked up at her from the dirt, a lopsided smile on her face.

 “Well,” she said. “I haven’t had my ass handed to me that way since Aveline got her promotion. _You_ need a better sword.”

 “I…” Nox shifted, looking from Hawke’s pleased face to Bethany’s inscrutable one, then the floor. “That was gratifying.”

 “I’ll bet. Help me up?” Hawke held out a small, scarred hand. Nox took it.

* * *

  _3\. Histories and hopes_

 “Watching you and Hawke was like seeing Carver all over again.”

 Bethany was quiet after her sister left, healing a small boy’s broken leg and taking Nox’s arm unasked when the magic caught up with her and made her stagger. She and Hawke and an extremely cranky Isabela had rebuilt a bench that morning. Bethany sank onto it.

 “Carver?”

 “Our brother. My twin.” The word sat heavy between them, and Nox’s stomach twisted as she thought of the liberati magister. His eyes met hers in the mirror when she wasn’t careful.

 Bethany’s shoulders slumped, new-old grief twisting her face. “He and Marian always fought that way,” she said, breaking the reverie. “Greatsword and dagger.”

 She chuckled, hand moving to the scarf at her throat. “ _Maker_. The first bit of healing magic I ever learned was a trick for one of their broken noses. Probably Carver’s.” She did not look at Nox, or the sleeping patient. Her face was abstracted, voice soft and a little too slow. “I’m not a natural healer, you know.”

 “Says the woman who tries to fix every louse-ridden corpse who staggers in here.” She paused. “Or falls through your wall.”

 Bethany looked up at her. A small smile graced her mouth. “Was that a joke?”

 “It was uncomfortable. I won’t try again.”

 Bethany laughed, soft and slow, and still deeply sad. Nox tried not to squirm. 

“I heal here because…” she shrugged. “Because it’s a calling, I suppose. Because it feels right. Because—”

 “—because the demon tells you.” The words came out hard. Bethany did not seem to notice.

 “Justice doesn’t _tell_ me much of anything, these days. He’s a need. A strength. A weakness.”

 “You _admit_ as much?”

 “Why wouldn’t I?”

 Nox bent to straighten one of the bed sheets. She shifted from foot to foot. “What are you, then?”

 “A force mage. Remember with Denarius? I’ve been just as good at whacking people as you and Carver, only you can’t _see_ when I do it.” The smile was wicked, and then it was gone. “But it didn’t help. I couldn’t save him.”

 She shrugged, wiping her eyes. “I’ll never be as good at healing as Fenris’s friend. But at least it _helps_.”

 “Everyone else calls him my brother,” Nox said, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Why don’t you?”

 “Because he isn’t. Not really. Not yet.”

Bethany reached out, taking Nox’s hand in her own.

 Nox flinched, but did not pull away. She was fascinated. Appalled. She looked into Bethany’s dark eyes and wondered—a little dizzy, a little sick—why she kept expecting them to be blue.

Bethany, for her part, did not close her hand around Nox’s paler, stronger one. She simply let her palm rest under Nox’s own, warm and dry and still.

“Everyone deserves the chance to be more than their history, I think,” she said, voice gone thick and hoarse with tears. “That’s what I try for, at least.”

* * *

 

  _4\. Dares and dreamers_

“You know, I think I might be jealous.”

Anders did not hide his grin as Fenris glowered at him over a hand of Wicked Grace. Varric had left them for the bar, and Anders took the opportunity to rifle the dwarf’s cards. Three pairs of roses and a serpent. It fit. And it would win the game. It also gave the former magister time to shift awkwardly in his seat.

“You are ridiculous.”

“All these weeks, and you’re invading someone _else’s_ dreams? Definitely jealous.”

“He’s a child,” Fenris said. “A somniari, completely untrained. It’s—“ he winced, meeting his gaze briefly, then fixing on the tabletop. “Alarming.”

Anders sighed. Things had been tense between them in the weeks since the fight with Denarius. Varania— _no,_ he reminded himself, for the hundredth time, _Nox_ —had not spoken to either of them. She barely left Darktown, though he had seen her in Bethany’s clinic, when he helped with the rebuilding or a bad birth, and saw snatches of her outside, usually in Hawke’s wild and tangled wake. She was, he had noticed with a pang, entranced by good swords.

Denarius’s mansion sat empty in Hightown, waiting for either sibling to make a claim.

“Can you train him?”

“There’s no question.”

“A magister in the Free Marches, losing at cards and teaching dangerous apostates.” Anders whistled. “Maker’s breath, Fenris. You never do anything by halves.”

“You always _joke_.” Fenris set the cards down, disgusted.

“It’s always helped,” Anders said, more gently. “You know that. And it’s _good,_ what you’re doing. Just and right and true. And dangerous.” He smiled, feeling something ease in his chest and throat as the other mage gingerly smiled back. “You know how I feel about that.”

Fenris swallowed. “You’re wrong, you know.”

“Hardly.”

Fenris downed the sad, warm remains of his whiskey in a gulp, glaring at him. “I didn’t ‘invade’ _your_ dreams, idiot mage,” he growled. He blushed. Even his voice seemed to blush. “ _You_ always ended up in mine.”

* * *

  _5\. Other people’s children_

“You’re _sure_ you’re not a demon.”

Fenris watched in fascination as the elf-blood boy coaxed a small pocket of the Fade into a world of his own making. They had created the space over weeks of nervous, fragmented conversation, Feynriel admitting to magic and his own name only after Fenris spent a week in the boy’s dreams, quiet and insistent and never _quite_ out of sight. Once convinced, Feynriel proved loquacious. And very young.

“If you truly thought I was a demon,” Fenris said, nodding as the boy changed the sky above their heads to a virulent green unlikely to be found in nature, “You’d have more sense than to keep pestering me about it. You’d run. Or you’d have fallen.”

“How do you know _I’m_ not a demon?” Feynriel—who wore his own tall, fair, raw-boned shape in most of their encounters, even when the shape of his ears changed without his consent—smiled crookedly at him.

Fenris sighed.

“You are considerably more annoying.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.” Fenyriel’s shape rippled with his distress, turning slight and fully elvhen, Dalish markings standing out stark over his face.

“I’m talking to you the way my master spoke to me,” Fenris said. He wondered, with a brief twist of memory and pain, what Castor would make of _that_ lie.

“Your master in Tevinter?” Wide eyes and a breathy hope in the name. Fenris fought an urge to laugh.

“The very same. He saw what I was. And even freed me for it.” Slowly, he let the dream-space take on the colours and sounds of a Minrathous he had never truly seen. It was all heat and noise and grand, decaying columns; a wonder to the young boy, and not a slave it sight. It was more like something Anders had dreamed up than his own memories of the place. “He taught me as I can teach you, if you are willing. I _have_ taught you, already.”

“The voices,” Feynriel mused. “They’ve been quieter, since…”

“They are drawn to you because you have power, and because you don’t know how to use it. Once you do, it is easier to block their influence.” Fenris moved across the space, sitting opposite the boy, legs tucked beneath him, back against a pillar. “This is your world as much as theirs.”

Feynriel’s breath caught. “Where _are_ you?” he asked. “Outside the Fade, I mean. Are you here? In Tevinter, I mean. I can run, it’ll be—“

Listening to the dreamer, holding out his hands to stop the tumbling, hopeful run of words, Fenris did not know whether he should laugh, or curse, or weep.


	30. Furious sisters, wayward sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hawke sisters clear the air, Fenris and Nox know just where to push, Feynriel loses at life, and Marian Hawke has a dangerous proposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter is courtesy of the amazing askbroodyelf on tumblr. Commission them, if you ever get the chance!

_1\. Clear the air_

Hawke’s shoulder moved back into place with a loud, hollow  _pop_ of sound and sweat. Bethany grinned.

“Easy, sister,” she said, stepping back. “I didn’t even need magic for that one.”

“You enjoyed that  _far_ too much.” Hawke raised a shaking hand, wiping sweat from her brow. Her hair stuck in straggling tendrils across her face. She groaned.

“I’m sure Anders would have made everything nice and painless and soothing,” Bethany murmured, watching as Hawke gingerly stretched out her battered left arm. “But it has been a long day of babies and vomit in Darktown.” She smiled crookedly. “I’m beat.”

“If I went to Anders every time I needed healing I’d never see you.”

Bethany sighed. “You know it’s safer—“

“—I know you’re avoiding us.” Blunt words. Hawke never took her eyes from her sister’s face. Bethany went pale.

“I don’t know how to  _talk_ to you.”

Hawke nodded. “Or mother.”

“Especially mother.”

“She misses you,” Hawke said. “ _And_ she knows she was an ass, lashing out at you the way she did. It was—”

“—it’s what she does,” said Bethany, as gently as she could manage, letting Hawke clear her throat and blink hard in angry peace. “I know that. And she wasn’t  _wrong_.”

“I’m as much to blame.” Hawke closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the wall. “It was so  _like_ Carver, charging in like that, the great lummox. If I’d stopped him—”

“—if I’d used Entropy on the ogre at the  _start_ —”

“—could you  _always_ do that?” Hawke opened her eyes, bluer from tears, the lashes spiky and dark.

“No,” Bethany whispered. “No. And that’s part of it. I  _can’t_ talk to mother. When you were all gone, I met a spirit. It…trained me. And it knew things.  _Personal_ things, about father. If mother knew, she’d hate me.”

“I don’t understand.” Hawke was trying for patience. Bethany saw it in her jaw, heard it in the careful spaces between each word. “Where was this spirit.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“And where is it  _now_ , Bethy?”

Carver’s name for her, sweet and more than a little cruel. Bethany laughed. It came out as a sob. “You  _really_ don’t want to know.”

But Justice pressed forward, insistent and bright through her skin—eager, perhaps, to look at Malcom Hawke’s oldest and bravest daughter. Bethany let it happen, sighing as blue light flickered and she began to lose sense of her own body.  

Hawke stumbled back, white about the lips. “ _Maker_ —“

“I’m safe.” Bethany forced the words out, while the clinic darkened to its normal gloom, its only light coming from her struggling oil lamps and the barrier ward on her door. “Promise.”

“Bethany—“

“—I’m  _still me_ ,” she said, and it surprised her that she was crying, hard enough that the words came out garbled and her shoulders shook. “Just…not fit for polite company anymore.”

Hawke’s arms came around her, wiry and only half familiar, after fear and anger and years spent away. Bethany sobbed into her sister’s shoulder, who sighed and shivered and muttered soothing obscenities as the two women rocked back and forth.

By the time Hawke disentangled herself, they were both smiling. Just a little. Hawke’s hair stuck up at all angles and her shirt was wet.

“I still don’t understand,” she said, voice rough. “This isn’t—none of this is  _right_ , Beth. It’s a sodding, bloody mess, and—“

“And you’ve been spending a  _lot_ of time with Varric.”

Half a laugh, half a scowl. “Don’t tease.”

“You mean,” Bethany gasped, delighted, “There’s actually something to tease  _about_? You’ve been holding out on me, sister.”

“ _You_ ate a demon.”

Bethany winced. “Fair call. But… _nothing_ is right, Marian,” she said, quietly moving to her workbench, gathering up dried elfroot and a pestle. “I’m not the worst of things here, and you know it.”

Hawke caught her eye, and held. “Can I keep you safe?” she asked.

“Not a chance,” Bethany said. “But…I’ll let you try. Magic still serves what is best in me. It always will.”

 Their father’s words, bring up a shifting image of an eight-year-old Bethany sitting at Malcom’s feet, watching in tear streaked awe as the big, quiet man told her all the ways her new power could hurt, if she wasn’t careful. Hawke, tucked into a quiet shadow where they wouldn’t see, had always thought it a harsh lesson. Looking at Bethany now, she felt like that, at least, had not changed.

 _Maker_ , she was sick of everything.  

Bethany’s answering smile was faint, but determined. “Where to now, sis?”

“I have go and see an elf about her missing son,” Hawke said. “When your friend comes back, I want her with me.”

* * *

_2\. Lose the thread_

In a cave on the Wounded Coast, a boy was bound and gagged, flinching as water dripped across his face.

 

 

> (“I help the desperate,” Samson had said, eyes sunken and far too bright in the dim moonlight. “But not the desperately skint. Go see Captain Rainer, down the Docks. He’s helped, time to time.”)

“Keep quiet, mageling.” A tall, red-haired man was smiling down at him, lantern in one hand, curved knife in the other. “Rainer already promised us two captives, and all we got is you. It’d be a  _bad_ idea to mess that up.”

 

 

> An Antivan merchant, all dark charm as he waved off a happy customer, eyes flashing as bright as coins. All colour had left him as the the boy reached his counter, stammering his story.
> 
> “Why are you  _here_? Brasca! You find me now? What do I know of mages?”
> 
> “I thought—I thought it might—the magic, it might be from  _you_. Your family.”
> 
> “ _Dia Andraste_ , keep your voice down. I can’t help you, Feynriel.”
> 
> “You’re my—“
> 
> “—I’m everything your mother has said about me,” he said, soft and relentless. “Your own mother, and  _other_ boys’ mothers, besides, I’m sure.” The man shook his head. “Listen,” he said. “I know a man—an old Templar. He helps mages. His name is Samson. Go to him, and I won’t tell a soul you were here. That’s all I can do for you.”)

   _Go to Samson. Go to Rainer._ Feynriel bit his gag to hold back a sob. The man—the slaver—smiled down at him.

“There’s a good lad,” he said. “The Tevinters pay well for mage flesh. Everyone will be nice and gentle.”

He had wanted to go to Tevinter. Tevinter, or at least the Dalish. The man in his dreams was an elf. Fenyriel knew this. An elf and a magister. It made sense he would be in either place. More sense than the whispers in the night, or his mother’s panic when he had told her what he was.

 

 

> (“I  _know_  now,” he’d said, bright and delighted with it, spinning Arianni about their kitchen. “I’m a sominari. A Dreamer.  _Old_ magic—different! It's why I hear the voices. They  _are_ demons, but that’s not—mother?”
> 
> “You’re running mad,” Arianni whispered. “Oh, my poor boy.” She’d stepped away from him, lips pinched, tears spilling across her vallaslin. The marks of adulthood he would never be permitted to wear. “There is no choice. You  _must_ go to the Circle.”)

_Go to the Circle. Go to Samson. Go to Rainer._ At the end of all his choices, with the slaver looking on, Feynriel wept.

* * *

_3\. Family and fault_

“You want me to work with  _them?”_

Nox stared Hawke, appalled. Fenris glared at her. Anders had his head in his hands.

“I want you to follow my lead,” said Hawke. “ _All_ of you.”

“Right behind you, Hawke,” said Varric, grinning at the scene. “Enjoying the show.”

Nox shuddered. “Where are you taking us?” she demanded, tightening the straps that held her new sword— _bribery,_ she knew, now. _Hawke’s idea of bribery, and I fell right into it—_ against her back.

“Darktown,” Hawke said. “The mage we’re looking for was snatched, and Varric’s tracked new activity there.” She lifted her chin, keeping a careful eye on all her party. “Thing is,” she said. “I want warriors and mages both, for this, and I can’t think of any group that wants to fight slavers _more_. You might even enjoy yourselves.”

“You’re a public menace,” Anders muttered.

Hawke grinned. “But am I _wrong?”_

Nox did not speak as they moved through the the tunnels and turns of the undercity. She kept five careful paces ahead of Anders and the magister, watching as Hawke bantered with her dwarven friend, and remembering what Bethany had said about how her older sister used to be a laughing, wicked sort, prone to awful jokes. Nox could see it, here. The rogue, usually tense and shadowed, seemed to have relaxed into this small mission, charming and domineering by turns. Nox had caught Anders staring at Hawke many times, for all that he and the magister who had owned the poor, stupid man seemed so close.

Even Nox wasn’t immune. The woman’s charisma made her skin itch as much as it had her following along on this ridiculous task, saving a mage who, she was sure, would neither thank them for their efforts nor do anything sane with them.

“Who _is_ this mage?” Fenris asked, terse. “You’ve told us next to nothing.”

“You only had to ask, Fenris.” Hawke sighed, easing a kink in her shoulder. “His name is Feynriel. Elf-blood boy. His mother’s frantic, willing to pay, and the boy’s been given some _terrible_ advice. Fenris? Keep up!”

The magister had stopped, blank faced, in the middle of the path. Anders reached out, tugging gently at his arm. “Love?”

“ _Kavesh_.”

“Why is it,” Nox muttered, “That every magister speaks like he’s spewing out the gutter?”

Fenris ignored her. “I…know him.”

“You do?”

Fenris turned to his friend, face turned sepulchral in guttering lamplight. “The _somniari_ child,” he said. “I _told_ him not to—”

“—there’s another demon-summoning mage amongst us?” Nox growled. “ _Wonderful.”_

“Mages,” Hawke muttered, lengthening her strides as they headed towards Varric’s scouted meeting point. “Worse than herding cats.”

* * *

_4\. Danzig_

“What have you done with him?”

Fenris wondered at the anger in his own voice, as he stared Danzig in the face while Varric and Hawke looked around for any sacks or barrels that might contain gold, arms, or restless captives. Anders was at his back, Nox glaring from the side. Fenyriel was nowhere to be seen.

Danzig smiled. “I know you, _my lord,”_ he drawled. “Magister liberati that was.” He spat. “The Archon still wants your head.”

“The Archon,” said Fenris, unsure if he was speaking Trade or Tevene, his heart beat so loudly in his ears, “Is able to try.”

“I might try for him,” said Danzig. He jerked his head at Anders. “ _That_ piece is still lawful property, after all.”

Anders gasped, Hawke turning in surprise at the words, and the man turning to a shaking mess before her eyes. “Fenris?”

Nox smiled thinly, sword still out and her stance steady as she blocked the slaver’s path, brands starting to glow a dull silver. She did not look at Fenris. “You didn’t know, Hawke? The magister _bought_ his lover. It’s not uncommon.”

Fenris actually staggered. “ _Varania_ —”

“Shut up, the lot of you.” Hawke didn’t raise her voice, but it was as cold as it was level, and even Varric flinched. “Sort out the family dramatics _after_ we’ve done our job. Our job, right now, right in front of us, is to remove this piece of pondscum from the Free Marches, and find a missing boy. Nox,” she said, looking straight at the other woman. “Think you can make him talk?”

“I can do that.”

Fenris stared as Nox stepped forward, brands flaring as she laid hands upon the larger man. Her fingers tightened, and he groaned. A harsh, broken _shocked_ sound as smoke began to trickle from his nose and lips. Lyrium pulled at him. Bile rose in his throat.

“Stop! Stop, I’ll tell you!” Danzig staggered backwards, white and coughing. “He—I’ve stashed in a cave. A smuggler’s hideout on the Wounded Coast. Andraste’s great, flaming arse. How did you _do_ that?”

Nox smiled. “Slavers helped.”

Danzig whimpered. “Can I go now? You know where he is.”

“Sure,” said their leader, sweet and bright, and pausing just long enough for both Fenris and his sister to shift forward uneasily, unable to believe what they heard.

Marian Hawke watched the strain on all their faces, and then shook her head, smiling. “Wait,” she said, daggers moving in an arc. “I meant no.”

* * *

The slaver caverns were as dark, chill, and miserable as when Anders, Fenris, and Isabela picked their way into Kirkwall. Hawke looked at Fenris and Anders askance when they made their way by cave markings and left turns, but she let them lead. Anders was still too pale, and kept head, flinching away when Fenris reached out to grasp his shoulder. Nox glowered at every scratched sign in Tevene, muttering on the evils of Minrathous.

“We _both_ hate it,” he said, when he couldn’t stand another minute. “I spent my _life_ fighting slavery.”

Nox sniffed. “Don’t talk to me.”

“Do not—” Fenris swallowed. “Do not _assume_ when you—when you don’t—”

“—When I don’t remember, _Fenris?”_ she said, smiling bleakly as Fenris flushed dark, staring at his own hands.

“You used to call me Leto,” he said.

Nox shrugged. “That’s two names I don’t care to remember.”

“All this family bullshit almost makes me feel grateful for Bartrand,” Varric muttered. “Can you check the back of my head, Hawke? I think I was hit back there.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, saying nothing as they moved towards the slaver’s hideout, hands fast at her daggers. Anders and Fenris stooped in an archway, and Hawke took in the sounds of ragged breathing, the press of new bodies in a small space. She moved through her small party, all silent now, watching her every step. Nodding, she moved out into the opening, where slavers waited.

* * *

_5\. Wayward son_

When Fenris saw Feynriel for the first time, the boy was being on a ledge, a dagger at his throat.

“One step, and the boy dies.”

“Predictable,” Varric muttered.

Hawke sighed, impatient. “Tell this dirt bag who we are, Varric?” she said, words clipped.

The story that poured out of the dwarf was a wild, ridiculous thing. The boy— _that_ boy, being held right there, near the sharp knife—he was the Vicount’s son! Illegitimate, of course, but he did adore his elvhen mistress, and there would be _all hell_ to pay if they broke so much as a pretty, half-blooded strand of hair on that boy’s head.

“They promised you mage flesh,” Varric said, dripping sympathy. “But they never told you where it came from. Do you _really_ want trouble?”

Fenyriel’s eyes, Fenris saw, were very wide. But the slavers were listening, disguised and enthralled, and they held out gold in less time than the take took to tell. There were easier marks. No need to get killed over some Marcher bastard, and mages were trouble.

Hawke took their gold with a smile, and Feynriel was thrown at her feet.

The slavers edged back, shaking their heads and muttering. And Anders moved. He cried out, wordless anger, and Fenris felt the pull of his magic as he drew ice from the Fade, freezing them in place, blades raised. Another cry, and they shattered.

“You were going to let them go,” he gasped, knees buckling and too fast for Fenris to catch. “You took their blood money and _let—”_

“—I took their money, and you killed them.” Hawke shrugged. “Nicely done.” She turned her back on the man as he tried not to sob. Fenris watched as Varric laid a comforting hand on the healer’s shoulder.

“Breathe easy, blondie,” he said. Fenris wasn’t sure if he grateful, or if he wanted to kick him.

Feynriel stared at Hawke. “Who are you?” His voice was higher and rougher than his dream-seeming’s. Fenris watched as he stepped forward, beligerant and flushed and hopelessly outmatched. “Are you working for the Templars?”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Your mother sent me.”

“Hardly a difference,” Feynriel snapped. “I can’t believe her. My whole _life_ , it was all: ‘I’ll love you, and protect you,’ and the minute I have some bad dreams, it’s off to the Templars.”

Fenris sighed. “For you, there is no such thing as _just_ a bad dream. Didn’t you listen to a word I said?”

“F-Fenris? I thought—I thought—”

“ _I_ thought you’d have the sense to stay put.”

Feynriel shifted uneasily. “Stay put? With my mother?

“Your mother is right,” Hawke said. “You _do_ need help.”

“I’ve got Fenris,” Fenyriel said. “He’s right here. He’s a somniari. He’s—”

“Not enough,” said Hawke. “I was paid to take you to the Circle. And that’s where you’re going.”

Nox nodded. “A wise decision,” she said.

“ _Hawke_.” Anders’s voice, trembling and raw with anger. “You don’t know. You can’t possibly—”

“—I can, and I will,” Hawke said, not looking away from Fenyriel. “Running to the Tevinters hardly did you any good, all told.”

“You will regret this,” Fenris said.

Hawke raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so,” she said. “ _I_ don’t know half of what you can do, but it’s still dangerous. And you’re not an angry child.”

“I’ve been teaching him,” Fenris said. “I only need—”

“—if you’d been doing a good job at teaching him, would he have run away?”

Fenris winced.

“Is anyone going to listen to _me_?” Feynriel demanded.

Hawke sighed. “Afraid not, kid. Just come home. You don’t want to fight me.”

“I saw what you did to those Tevinters,” Fenyriel muttered. “I won’t fight you. But she’ll be the only person I’ll be glad never to see again when I’m locked up. You tell her that.”

Fenris walked over to the boy, looking up at him with an acid mix of annoyance and regret. “We will talk later, you and I,” he said, low enough for the others not to hear. “You will not be alone.”

 

* * *

_6. Aftermath and anger_

Fenyriel went to the Circle. Hawke had that effect. Fenris, frustration clawing at his throat, paced his rooms at the Hanged Man. He drank terrible whiskey. He lived through new twists and turns in Anders’s nightmares, and but kept as silent as he could stand. Anders was subdued. And Varania’s blood charm hung about Fenris’s throat like a weight, condemning him for Feynriel’s plight, or Anders’s fears. He tore it from his neck, and walked fast and hard to Darktown.

Nox was standing at the entrance to Bethany’s clinic, sword at her hip, hair falling loose and ragged about her face. It was almost shoulder-length, now. Fine and white, and completely wrong. Fenris glared at the ground.

“What do you want?”

“I came to see you.”

Nox sighed. “I don’t _want_ —”

“—I came to see you, and return this,” he said, through clenched teeth. “It was how Anders and I followed you, all those months. Minrathous to Perivantium. Par Vollen.” He looked up, shaking his head at his own foolish words. He held the battered gold locket out on his open palm. “And the Free Marches. Inside, there is the remains of a letter you wrote. The last thing you handled before—” he swallowed. “It was Varania’s. Addressed to me. I used it to find you.”

Nox leant forward, taking in the small, sad object. She saw scars lined the inside of his wrist, enough that his skin seemed to pucker and stretch in odd places. She ran a fingernail down along the widest, thickest scar, and shuddered. He did not, to her amazement, jerk away. He did not strike her. Instead, he stood, skin creeping, as she touched the mark. And she was the one who backed away.

“You used blood,” she said. “All this—” she eyed the locket with loathing. Fenris only sighed, pressing it into her hand.

“All the blood in the world would not have worked without a focus,” he told her. “Take it, and if you decide you want to leave, and never see me again, then you can. And I will not stop you, Nox.”

The name was hard for him. She could see it. Hear it. The locket was heavy in her palm, soon slick with sweat. She stared at the man who claimed he was her brother, and did not know what to say.

* * *

Marian Hawke strode into Anders’s rooms at the Hanged Man without a knock or by-your-leave, making her way to the nearest window while Anders spluttered at her back.

“I can be terrible,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I say what I think and I _genuinely_ don’t give two shits what people think of me, and that pisses people off. I’m not good with feelings, small children, or other people’s baggage. All that being said,” she said, smiling, “I _do_ think you need to get away from everyone for a good long while, and I think I know the way to do it.”

Anders swallowed. “ _Who_ are you, Hawke?”

“In need of a healer,” she said. “Bethany has her clinic. She won’t leave it. Not for this, or anyone. _You_ , though. You’re a spirit healer. And I need someone strong, where I’m headed.”

“Which is where, exactly?”

Hawke grinned. “The Deep Roads. There are riches to be had. Are you in?”

_End of Part 2_

 


	31. INTERLUDE IV: The Deep Roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bartrand was dead. He just didn't know it yet. 
> 
> (Memory gets under Nox's skin, and Anders does not do well under the earth.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh! Timeskips. This chapter was simultaneously insistent and unwieldy, which is a pretty unfortunate combination. Sorry for the delay!
> 
> Also: trigger warning for references to abuse.

_1._ _Fate_

The door slammed shut, glowing traces of a carved lyrium idol still lingering in the air. Hawke and Varric scrabbled at the door, and riches fell from the walls, mixed in with spiders and the dirt. Anders began to sweat. And Nox, her mouth full of dust and her heartbeat loud in her ears, watched as Hawke's hands started to turn white around the hilts of her daggers.

Bartrand was dead. He just didn't know it yet.

* * *

**_2\. Memory_ **

> [" _You shouldn't do this."_
> 
> _Fenris stood with Anders in the Dwarven Merchant's Guild, ignoring the rush of bodies that flowed and bumped and swore about them._
> 
> _Nox watched his hands. They were never still, always clenching at robe or the gold he wore at wrist and neck. He grasped Anders's shoulder—pulled at his own hair._
> 
> _Anders never tried to still the movement. He looked pale. His hair was tied, his staff secure across his back. He wore new boots. Hawke had been oddly insistent on everyone wearing new boots. The Fereldan stood tall in his. Nox, only a few feet away, her back to Hawke and Bartrand as they argued over the sanity of moving without maps, might have been invisible._
> 
> _"They need a healer." Anders gently prized Fenris's hand from his arm, managing a smile. Nox thought it a strange smile: wistful, more than a little sad. It made Frenris scowl._
> 
> _"It doesn't have to be you," he said. "The woman will not risk her sister. Fine. But to ask you—"_
> 
> _"To follow people into a pit of monsters? Sounds just like me, don't you think?" The smile shifted and brightened, then dropped away._
> 
> _"Fenris, these people have helped us. And you can't spit without hitting a Templar in this city. It's—" He paused, drawing a ragged breath. "I'll come back, you know."_
> 
> _"To this pustule of a city?" Fenris had stepped back. He seemed to shrink under the other man's rush of words, and Nox watched, bemused, as Anders's leant forward, catching Fenris's sleeve. He spoke—too soft and low for her to hear. The elf blushed._
> 
> _"Take these, mage," he said, pressing papers into Anders's free hand._
> 
> _"The slave tunnel maps?"_
> 
> _"Some of them run deep. I'm not sure, but there_ might _be—" his face twisted. "_ Fasta vass. _Stay safe."_
> 
> _Anders laughed, the sound cutting off as Fenris pulled him down in a kiss. It was harsh and quick. It almost missed his mouth. Nox's face burned as she turned away._
> 
> _Bethany was grinning at her, eyes bright. "There are some things," she said, "That no sister needs to see. Even the undecided ones."_
> 
> _Nox stiffened. She wanted to snap, to say that she was no sister to an awkward magister who clearly did not know how to kiss, but found herself caught by the way the abomination's nose crinkled when she smiled. Her blush refused to move._
> 
> _Bethany shook her head, dark hair falling forward and shadowing her face in the sharp afternoon light. "I'm going to miss you just as much as Marian," she said. "Be careful in there. The Darkspawn aren't—" she swallowed. "They're horrible."_
> 
> _Nox peered up at her, trying to read the other woman's face. "I've seen a lot of horrors," she said._
> 
> _"I know." A smile flickered, and stayed warm in her eyes even when it left her mouth. "I'm just being silly," she said. "But be careful, crosspatch. Keep yourself safe. The others, too."_
> 
> _"Crosspatch?" The word came out strangled. "_ Kavesh _."_
> 
> _Bethany's laughter spilled across the cobbled square, drawing every eye. Hawke shook her head. Varric smiled. The pirate and the blood mage made infuriating cooing noises._
> 
> _Nox glared at the ground_.]

* * *

_3\. Stone_

Tunnels. Endless tunnels. Nox tried to count the turns, follow lefts and rights and rivulets in the rock, but every pattern she chased fell back into the darkness, only to creep out again and torment her hours later. There were rooms of ice and treasure, mixed in with rooms full of monsters. It made no _sense_ to her, this world where they could find a babbling merchant's missing son, but then trip over their own camp whenever they thought they were headed toward a new path. She heard Anders at her back, his breathing rapid and shallow.

"Stone," he muttered. "Stone and dark and _silence_."

Hawke caught the words. She looked over her shoulder, her grin fierce and unsettling in their torchlight. "Could be worse," she said. "There could always be…"

Something shrieked, the sound full of panic and hate and teeth that could rend flesh and stone. Nox drew her sword. Bianca whirred and clicked.

("You can't _say_ shit like that, Hawke." Varric, warm and exasperated under the screaming and the dirt.)

"—And there's that," Hawke said, daggers gleaming as she moved.

Nox fought alongside the battered near-strangers. Bethany Hawke's quiet insistence that Nox would keep them safe always skirling through her mind. Memories cut through the blood that lay thick on her skin.

* * *

_**4\. Family** _

> _["Who let the old woman in?"_
> 
> _Nox had not met Leandra Hawke, but she was unmistakable, standing straight with her hands clasped at her breast and echoes of both her children in her gaunt, unhappy face._
> 
> _"Pardon me, Ser Dwarf." The clipped and faded courtesy made Bartrand twitch, while Bethany sighed and Hawke made valiant efforts to hide behind Varric. "I must speak with my children."_
> 
> _"So you admit there's two of us." Hawke snapped. "That's a start."_
> 
> _"I'm not going." Bethany's voice was thin, but she looked straight at her mother, stepping away from Nox to walk a few long, steady paces closer._
> 
> _Leandra seemed taken aback. "You're not? But your sister—"_
> 
> _"—Hawke will do just fine without me," Bethany said. "And I have the clinic."_
> 
> _Her mother closed her eyes. "So you won't go, but you won't come home? Darling girl—"_
> 
> _"—Mother, please." Bethany reached out to touch her mother's cheek. "Everything will be all right."]_

* * *

_5\. Laughter_

"Crosspatch," Varric mused, emptying bits of rock wraith out of his boot. "I like it. Sunshine was on to something."

"I will end you."

"…I can like it less, Nox." Varric shook his head. "Fine. You and your brother can just be Broody and Fury forever more."

Somewhere ahead of them in the tunnel, Anders choked back laughter.

* * *

_6\. Fear_

"You do not like the dark."

She did not want to talk to him. The words came out slow and cross, small echoes skittering across the rock walls. But she had stood watch with him for silent hours, until his mage light guttered and shook from the mana that left him in slow, nervous drips. It make her skin itch. They were nearly out of food, and the maps Fenris had passed to Anders were worse than useless. A torn and ragged hope that he kept clutched in his hands. As the days ran into each other and more monsters fell, with no sign of a door that led to sunlight, or even Bartrand's useless corpse, Nox's anger grew. She _hated_ those maps. Anders and Hawke stared at them every night, as if they could change the roads marked there and make them fit. The hope was painful, and it wasn't even _good._

Anders shifted, and smiled at her. A faded, miserable twist of a thing that made her want to kick things. "I've spent a lot of time in it," he said.

"In Tevinter." Again, Nox felt like the words were dragged out of her. She bent to pick up a rock.

"Before Tevinter, actually," Anders said, voice light and catching at her in odd, discomfiting ways. "Circles of Magi look different all over Thedas, but they've all got at least one small stone room. Andraste probably wrote it into law somewhere."

"That is nonsensical."

"So is locking away an angry child, with no one for company except his own thoughts and the templars who drew lots over who got to touch, and who got to watch. And I hardly ever slept." Anders reached out and laid his palm against the nearest patch of stone. "I can't even dream, down here," he said, almost singing the words. "And I don't know where he is. _Maker_ , they probably all think we're dead."

Nox shuddered. Quick as thought, she moved and gripped his wrist firmly in one hand. Anders flinched, but she refused to balk, looking into wide, panicked eyes that had turned colourless in the gloom.

"I want to get out of this place alive, mage," she said. "You are flagging."

"Varan—"

"My name is _Nox_."

Anders blinked, some of the shadows seemed to leave his face. "You," he said, voice full of growing wonder, "Sound _just_ like your brother."

Nox spat. Or tried to. Her mouth was too dry. She shook her head. "Do you feel the lyrium?"

The mage shifted uneasily. "It's…"

"—it's a tool," she said. "A hateful, evil tool, and when I find Denarius I am going to make him pay for longer than I remember being alive. But you are flagging, and you're meant to be the healer. _Use_ it."

When Hawke and Varric returned, it was to a cavern filled with clear, steady light. Nox stood at one end, leaning on her sword and refusing to look at them, while Anders stood tall for the first time in days. Varric eyed them quizzically.

"Did someone replace Blondie with a human torch?"

Before anyone had the chance to answer, stone screamed and sparked. By the time it formed a ten foot behemoth with glowing red eyes, Hawke and Varric had forgotten there was anything else strange in the room.

* * *

_8\. Hope_

Slammed doors and dirt. Brothers and betrayal. Riches and spiders and Darkspawn who cut and keened and died. A map that led to nowhere. And, at the end, an ancient rock wraith who hid a key and teased for it, until Hawke was half mad for want of home.

"I know all the doors," it said. "I have all the keys. Aid me, and you can leave this place."

Nox found herself standing at her elbow, loud and stronger than she felt, bathed in the red light from the creature's eyes.

"Bargaining with demons will get you killed," she said.

"Blundering around here is getting us killed pretty damn unpleasantly," Hawke said, voice thick, the bite in her voice muffled from thirst and lack of sleep.

"I'll take it," Anders said from Hawke's other side. Nox jerked in surprise.

"Not all mages work with demons, you know," he snapped. His skin still glowed with excess lyrium.

"You love _my brother_." The words scraped her throat.

"That's not—"

"—that's _not_ exactly relevant, right now." Varric shifted, levelling Bianca at the creature. "Not sure of you've noticed, but this thing's sitting on quite a hoarde." He fired, grinning as one of Hawke's daggers arced towards the wraith's eye, while Anders rimmed the walls with frost. "And a sodding _door_."

Hawke's dagger landed. The world was a tumbled rush of falling rock, but Varric's hand found her free one and held on. Blue eyes met his. He winked.

Marian Hawke's laughter led them through the fight.


	32. Sleeping fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been two years since the Deep Roads. Frienships shift, lovers embarrass their audience, and trouble stirs at the Circle of Magi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone's Fenris/Anders mild smut needs, there is a companion ficlet set post Anders's return from the Deep Roads [ here]()

**Part 3 : 933 Dragon - Kirkwall**

_1\. The docks_

“I once knew a sailor like you.” Isabela, taking point, smiled over her shoulder at Hawke as the other woman strode through salt-stained refuse without a care for her fancy new armour. The dog was at her heels, lumbering and panting and too clever by half, kaddis picked out across his hindquarters in an ominous pattern. Hawke, who could be predictable when she didn’t have something sharp in her hand, scowled.

Anders smirked. “Does this story end well?”

Isabela paused. “We lost him in a storm.” She sighed as Anders started chuckling, the feather pauldrons he had acquired in a fit of sartorial lunacy after the Deep Roads expedition shaking as he laughed. Fenris, on Hawke’s other side, only raised his eyebrows. The pirate rolled her eyes.

“It was very sad!”

“Does this have a point?” Hawke increased her pace, leveling with Isabela and checking the next corner for traps or lurkers in a way that the pirate could not help admiring, even when Hawke seemed determined to strip anything fun from their day.

“Isabela, Captain of the Grand Non-sequitur,” said Anders, while Hawke groaned.

“Ugh. I was serious.” Isabela threw up her hands. “It  _was_ sad.”

“If we don’t follow through on this task for the Viscount,” Hawke said, level, “Things could get  _seriously_  ugly.”

“No fear, Hawke.” Isabela let the leader move ahead, sparing one long, wistful glance for a trireme sitting pretty in the harbour. Old fashioned, perhaps, but lovely all the same. Anitvan? “You have Fenris with you,” she said. “He’s  _always_ serious.”

“This is true,” the magister, face impassive. “Especially when I’m dancing.”

The silence was beautiful. Even Hawke stopped, head tilted to the side, face openly baffled as she tried to read a single slip of humour in the man.

Isabela slung an arm around him, laughing at the strangled surprise and Anders’s exasperated sigh. “I  _knew_ I liked you, Fenris. It’s sucha shame you two don’t—”

“ _Not_ the time.” Hawke did not look back, but her voice was colder than Andraste’s ashes in a snowstorm. Fenris, blushing rather delightfully and shaking his head, sidestepped out from her grasp. Anders rolled his eyes. “Probably not the best idea to talk about  _sharing,”_ he murmured. _“_ When you’ve been sleeping with Hawke’s baby sister.”

“That’s Hawke’s problem,” she said, letting her voice carry. “And also none of her business. Grudges are bad for your teeth.”

“So is a punch to the face,” Hawke muttered.

“Oooh. Nice.” Isabela grinned, feeling a little spike of triumph as Hawke shook her head, anger softening to annoyance, resignation and half a smile under the pirate’s relentless refusal to give even half a damn. Besides, they both knew Sunshine; Bethany had very set opinions on older-sister warnings made behind her back. Isabela let herself enjoy the image. Along with a few others. A lovely few weeks of memories to shore up against future nastiness, or those times when Marian Hawke moved from intense to sanctimonious. She walked in Hawke’s wake, while the two boys ignored her completely. They were, she saw with great amusement, almost holding hands. Each brush of shoulder or hip, each small movement Anders made shifting into the other man’s space—Fenris’s hand moving to rest against the small of Anders’s back—made her smile.

The Qunari compound loomed. Isabela flinched back from it. “Oh.” Fenris and Anders also looked suspiciously like they expected a punch in the face.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, very carefully. “You wish us to enter here?”

“ _You_ can do what you like,” Isabela said. “You go on ahead! I’ve things to attend—”

“—You know, Hawke,” Anders said, flushing as Hawke started to glare. “So do we. Fenris and I have—”

“—female troubles.” Isabela’s words broke over the mage’s, and she backed up, fleeing the scene with skill and speed, wishing she had Varric’s gift for decent endings. Hawke’s annoyed, “We can  _wait_ , you know,” floated out across the docks.

* * *

 

Hawke stared after the pirate in consternation, hands falling loose at her sides. Cù whined, his weight solid against her shins. Anders and Fenris were still with her, but they stared at the ground. At filthy tidelines on the port steps. At each other. She sighed.

“Female troubles?”

“It’s…” Anders stammered. “We can’t speak for Isabela, but Fenris and I have had dealings with—”

Fenris laid a hand on the other man’s arm. “When I was tracking my sister, we spent a considerable length of time in Par Vollen.”

“I knew that,” Hawke said. “You said it was a week.”

Anders shook his head. “Fenris can make a lot of people very angry in a week.”

“I am sorry, Hawke,” Fenris said.

Hawke threw up her hands. “Fine,” she said. “Go. Cù and I have this.” The mabari growled softly as Hawke scratched his ears. “Haven’t we, boy?”

She did not stay to watch her companions leave. She walked straight through the compound doors, nodding at the qunari who lowered at her, standing guard.

She had an appointment to keep.

* * *

 

_2\. Hightown_

 Isabela found Merrill kneeling the Viscount’s garden, patting freshly turned earth back around a line of marigolds. Smiling, Isabela crouched at her side.

She touched a flower head. Merrill shifted to look at her, one cheek smeared with earth.

“I don’t usually catch you putting flowers _back_ , kitten.”

“This patch was looking a little bare. I think it’s much better now. Do you see?”

“I see you like it. That’s enough.” Isabela smiled. “But where did you get these, exactly?”

“Hawke’s garden at the estate is _full_ of marigolds,” Merrill said. “No one ever looks after them. They’ll be happier, here. And they need _red_ flowers, don’t they? With the Amell crest and all.”

“You’ll have to steal them a rose.”

Merrill’s luminous eyes narrowed as she considered this. “There’s one in the De Launcet’s back garden that might suit,” she said. “Anyway, I tried to give some to Fenris this morning—before he went off with you and Hawke—but he looked at me like I was bonkers.” She pressed a kiss to a flower’s bright orange head. There’s never any gardeners anywhere—why are you laughing at me, Isabela?”

“No reason, kitten.” Isabela shook her head. “I’m just charmed. I don’t think Fenris is the flowers type.”

Merrill’s happy expression dimmed. “He’s been _so_ helpful about the Eluvian,” she said. “They were never his area of study, but he has so much _learning.”_ Her mouth twisted. “It’s hard not to hate him, sometimes. A Tevinter, who knows about Arthathan because of all the dead the magisters picked through when it fell.”

She shuddered, and bent to breathe in the sharp-pepper-green smell of bruised leaves and clean earth. When she looked up, she was smiling. “And Anders gets so terribly cross with both of us,” she said. “I don’t think he approves.”

Isabela brushed her thumb over the smudge on Merrill’s cheek. The elf laughed.

“I know!” she said, opening her hands wide to show the full glory of the private garden. “You should take some of these to Bethany.”

Sometimes, talking to Merrill was as slippery and as likely to end up in strange places as a sailor trying to get out of a debt. Isabela closed her eyes. “I don’t give flowers, kitten.”

“Ah,” Merrill said. “Just cunnilingus! Sorry, I’d forgotten.” Isabela opened her eyes to see her friend slowly getting to her feet.

“I might give some, then. Flowers, I mean. These flowers. They’re very pretty. She’s looking peaky. You don’t mind, do you?” She reached out a slim, dirt covered hand, and Isabela took it.

“…never change, kitten,” she said. “Never change.”

* * *

 

  _3. Lowtown_

 

“Nox, don’t be a goose. Come inside.”

Standing in the doorway, the night air chill against the back of her neck, Nox felt as if the Hanged Man had washed out to meet her, all warm light and other people’s arguments, heavy with terrible pipe playing and old beer. Varric saluted her with a tankard. Merrill smiled brightly at her from a perch on one of the tables, her legs swinging. She was peering over Isabela’s shoulder, following a game of Diamondback.

Aveline, a woman Nox had come to respect over nearly three years of solid backup and careful questions, nodded to her and turned back to the game, only to flush bright red when she caught the eyes of a dark haired guardsman from another table. Nox winced. And Bethany Hawke was still talking to her, hands outstretched.

“If I need to get out of the clinic once in a while,” she said, “Then so do you.”

“I’m fine,” Nox said. Bethany’s hands caught at hers, tugging gently on her gauntleted fingers. Years of shared space as the clinic’s guard and spectre had made the human woman easier with touch, and Nox was almost used to it.

Anders and Fenris were standing at the other end of the room, near the staircase that lead to the pub’s sleeping quarters. They were entwined, breathing hard. Fenris, she couldn’t help but see, was smiling. A wondering, embarrassed joy of a smile that was echoed in the hand he had curled about the nape of Anders’s neck, and the way Anders let his forehead rest against her brother’s.

 _My brother._ The words never left her mind. He kept his word, kept his distance as much as anyone could in Kirkwall, and she still found herself in shared spaces, her eyes picking him out from every crowd. A battered locket lay curled at the bottom of her belongings.

“People use this place for private things,” Nox muttered, refocusing on Bethany’s concerned face. “It’s…”

“Inevitable, sweet thing.” Both Nox and Bethany started as Isabela, smiling broadly and her headscarf askew, slid an arm about Bethany’s waist. She extended her free arm to Nox. “You should just surrender to it.”

Bethany swatted her, wriggling out of the hold after pressing a soft kiss to the other woman’s jaw, which made something flip in Nox’s stomach, aching and awkward and chill.

“You’re incorrigible,” Bethany said.

Isabela snorted. “And offering to buy you both a decent drink,” she said.

Bethany made a face. “You’re not buying _me_ a drink,” she said. “Spirit says no.” Her tone was light, but Nox caught strain in the other woman’s jaw, the set of her shoulders.

“Justice,” Isabela opined, “Is awful. I don’t know how it puts up with me.”

“Shock, probably,” Nox muttered, trying to hide a smile. “You appall it into submission.”

Both the other women laughed, Isabela clapping a hand to her shoulder.

“Come on, Nox,” she said. “The epic romance scene over there will probably take it upstairs before we’re halfway done.” She sighed. “They’re never any fun.”

Nox rolled her eyes, while Bethany choked. “Did you just proposition me _and_ Bethany _and_ Anders _and_ the magister in the same breath, Isabela?”

The laughter lines around Isabela’s eyes deepened pleasantly as she smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It wouldn’t _all_ be at the same time.”

Nox watched as Bethany turned bright red and Varric choked on his beer. Aveline was shaking her head. A quick glance to the stairwell, and she saw that Fenris and Anders were still blessedly oblivious to anything but each other.

“Please, Nox,” Bethany said, blush receding, her voice warm under the pub’s clamour and tinged with exasperation. “Come inside. You’re our friend, too.”

Nox walked into the Hanged Man, her armoured step heavy, and her heart oddly light.

* * *

 

_4\. The Gallows_

_Liberati: Someone waits for you at the Gallows._

 The note was a simple thing. 

Anders and Fenris left the Hanged Man early. They did go upstairs to the rooms Anders still kept. They did not go to Fenris’s mansion, to trip over books and old weapons and broken pottery as they fumbled toward a bed.

Instead, they walked the Gallows. There had been a rumour waiting for them in the Hanged Man. A note, slipped into Fenris’s hand as they passed the bar on the way out.

Mistress Selby wrote a fair hand, and her news was often worth coin and lives.

And now, everywhere they looked, Templars slept.

“Are you doing this?” Anders stared wild-eyed at the scene, flinching as the gateway shadows made lines across his face.

Fenris shot him an annoyed look. “No. If I was, I wouldn’t be walking upright.”

“Bet…you could.” A small, strained voice made both men stop short, and Anders cried out at the sight of a tall, thin figure pressed up against one of the barred doorways.

“You got the note, Fenris,” Feynriel said. His voice voice slurred and hands were tight around the bars, but his eyes fixed on their faces. “I wanted—to sh- _show_ you.”

Fenris stared at the Templars. When he closed his eyes, he sensed their dreams. Easy, still-and-soft things that spooled back to the halfblood boy, proud and shaking under the effort.

“You can’t sustain this,” he said.

“But I will,” he said. “Soon. I’m getting stronger.”

“Too strong,” Anders murmured. “If the Templars knew they’d—” he shuddered, biting hard on his lower lip. “ _You’re_ that boy Hawke—”

“—your friend thought I was _safe_ here,” Feynriel sneered.

Fenris swallowed. “How did Mistress Selby,” he asked, words slow and precise, “Know to send me that note. Did you speak to her?"

Feynriel grinned, sagging against the bars. “She had a dream.”

 _Varania was right_ , Fenris thought dazedly. _I am a terrible teacher._ The boy was going to kill himself.

Emotions already roiling, feeling horror in his gut and pride deep in his heart for the reckless, angry child who had been taking more from their lessons in the Fade than he even knew, Fenris moved closer to the doorway, almost tasting the magic that had spilled out over the small, dangerous space.

“Maker take you, Feynriel!”

The voice was a whisper, but new footsteps were loud in the dark. New footsteps. A new voice. Older, roughened with fear and effort. Next to him, Anders pressed a hand to his mouth, fingers digging hard into his cheek. Fenris tensed.

Feynriel flinched, but did strike out or attempt to flee as a tall, bearded man stepped into view, swathed in Circle robes. He looked kind. He looked frantic. He stepped behind Feynriel and stared at the fallen Templars, his eyes barely even touching the apostates in their midst until Anders made a small, shocked noise, deep in his throat. Fenris reached for his lover’s hand. It lay boneless in his grasp.

“Go back to bed, Karl,” Feynriel said. “I’ll release them soon and they won’t know a thing. It’s all—“

“—You’re dead.”The stranger’s voice shook, and he reached out a wondering hand towards them. Towards Anders, who stared back with a world of outrage and sadness on his face.

 “Everyone was sure you were dead.”  

 

 


	33. Whispers in the Gallows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany struggles; Fenris and Anders learn about Ser Alrik's shadow; and two Dreamers in one place prove too much for Justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the huge delay on this. I've been knocked around by school, work, and a pretty terrible kidney infection, and so it's taken me ages to get even a few words out. Things should pick up from this point. Thank you for your patience!

_1\. Frustration._

_"If you want to find the healer, look for the lit lantern."_

The phrase had been Varric’s idea, slipped into stories with a nod and a smile, and sticking to the shadows of bar fights and fevered children. After three years, all of Kirkwall seemed to know about the Fereldan apostate who never took your money, and the elf with the giant sword and rage in her eyes, who made sure you took nothing of hers. Between the healer taking you in and the painted elf throwing you out, the clinic was rarely still. 

And when it was, Bethany could not sleep. 

Her skin burned. Her heartbeat seemed to press up against her skin. It made her pick at her nails and bite her cheek, made the sweat that stuck in her hair and pool in the small of her back turn to acid, while a hundred tasks played out on the inside of her eyelids.

_This city is sick. It cracks. It heaves. Children starve while you sleep. They’re all around you. Look at this hovel. This filth. You change nothing._

Her voice? Or Justice? Bethany was never sure. The language was his, but it was all her blood. Her anger. Her useless tears when she tried to make people comfortable when there was cholera in the water, all while her sister laughed over the horrors of house-dresses and matching silverware at the Amell estate. 

 _That isn’t fair._ Bethany shifted on her narrow bed, wincing as it creaked. _You could live there at any time._

_**(Impossible.)** _

"I need to stop this," she whispered, mindful of Nox on her pallet only a few spans away. "I need to _sleep_." 

_(The latest child, whimpering in the corner of his mother’s cot. Blood in his sick. In his bowels. Dead in an hour.  Nox took the body. Nox held the mother back. What sort of healer am I, really? What good can I do? Maker, this place—)_

Shuddering, Bethany sat up. Her hands shook. They also shone a bright, steady blue. 

Swearing under her breath, Bethany fumbled for her clothes.

* * *

 

_2\. Compulsion_

Marian often walked the streets at night. She had done it in Lothering, and in all the other hamlets their family settled after the twin’s birth, once Malcolm had found the first signs on magic in Bethany’s abstracted gaze and tiny hands. Marian had been quick and quiet, learning Templar patrols and the better sorts of secret places, easing through windows and driving Carver half mad with envy.

In Kirkwall, she was infamous for it. She challenged gangs and took their coin, and laughed in the Guard's faces as she did their jobs. Sometimes, when Varric visited the clinic, he was haggard and smiling, and Bethany imagined a night of picked locks and stolen whiskey, and her sister’s knack for caches.

Now, Bethany grit her teeth at the sound of her own tread. She was not built for stealth. She walked fast and hard, the night air cold and damp and strange on her skin, after weeks in Darktown. She kept one hand pressed to walls, feeling the change from splintered wood to stucco and tile. And, as she approached the Gallows, the faint grit of old stone. She swallowed, half sure she could taste strange magic. It pulled at her, whispering in a way that made her think of Justice during sleepless nights, and of Fenris, when he had fought Denarius in her clinic. She walked, and wondered if it was her own blood that called her.

“Maker,” she muttered, letting the words slip out low and fast because it felt safer than screaming. “This is a terrible idea.”

* * *

_3\. Lost threads_

“The Circle is _free_ in Ferelden?”

Karl sighed, smile rueful as he heard the crack in his friend’s voice. Anders gripped the iron gateway, his disbelief easy to read even in the dark. “Just after I was sent here,” he said. “The new King granted it. A boon in the Hero’s name.” He sighed, remembering the gangly, freckled child who broke her nose taking a fall from library shelves, spending an entire healing furious that she could not do it herself. “Poor Solana.”

“Solona _Amell?_ ” Anders blinked. “I didn’t realise she—wait. Of course. And isn’t she… _Maker_ , Hawke’s cousin? _She_ was the one who—”

“Is this conversation going to take place entirely in ellipses?” The other mage shifted restlessly at Anders’s side, gaze flicking from the two of them to Feynriel. The boy leaned heavily against the wall, but his jaw seemed looser, his hands hanging open at his side. With half an eye to the Fade, Karl felt a link between the two, and shivered. _Somniari._

Anders released the bars, laying one hand on the elf’s arm. “Sorry, Fenris. I just—” he swallowed, and reached out with his free hand.

Karl had never withstood appeals well. He reached out, and Anders’s fingers caught in the sleeve of his robe. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he said.

“Took me a while,” Anders said, smile rueful. “I—”

“—safety,” said the elf, “Is not one of your skills, mage.”

This time, Karl’s smile ached a little less. “You are Fenris?” he asked. “Feynriel spoke of you, but never said—”

“—I suspect the foolish child never speaks when he ought.” Fenris shot a glare at the boy, before nodding to Karl. “I am Fenris, yes.” He shifted again, the anxious movements at odds with his tone. “I fear I have you at an advantage,” he said. “For that, I—”

“—I didn’t bring you here for _smalltalk_.” Feynriel snapped, voice strained and small. “ _Creators_ , you’re all stupid.”

“Says the one who tried to hold a full compliment of Templars in sleep,” Fenris said.

“…and most of the mages.”

“Precisely so.”

Fenris’s glare had begun to have an effect. Karl watched Feynriel talk small, heavy steps sideways, his back still pressed to the wall. His head, however, was still held high.

“The Circle might be free in Ferelden,” the boy said. “But it’s _terrible_ here. More of us go missing every week. More than half end up Tranquil. We’re all dreaming _horrors_ while Ser Alrik makes them real, and all you can talk about is how reckless I’m being, or some dead human who barely made a difference in this shithole?”

He swayed, and Fenris swore, shoulders tensing as he took more of the invisible load they both carried.

“If you break under this, you will be worse than a horror,” he said, low and fierce. “Dreamstalkers are hard to kill. I would still do it, if you became one.”

Feynriel laughed. “I’ve read while stuck in here, magister. Those are myths.”

“So are somniari,” Fenris said.

Anders swallowed, moving so he could better see the apprentice. “Fenyriel,” he said, slow and careful. “Who is Ser Alrik.”

“A Templar.” Fenyriel shuddered, and Karl saw Fenris’s eyes go wide in the scant light. “Who else?”

“And this Templar,” Fenris said, his own voice soft, now—blurred around its edges with horror. “Acts as you have just shown?”

“That’s a nightmare,” said Feynriel. “One of junior mages has it every night, now. She spent an hour with him.”

* * *

 

_4\. Shadows of justice._

Bethany heard Fenris first. A low, angry sound that carried out past the Gallows, and settled somewhere dangerous in her spine. The air seemed to change as she approached, turning thick around her, muffling her step and making her wish for sleep. Her breathing slowed. She saw the small crowd at the Gallows’s central gate, and her eyes grew heavy as she stared at them. Anders stood at Fenris’s back, one hand on his shoulder. The magister was bent into the shadows, and a tall, pale boy was pressed against the bars on the other side, his hair picking up threads of moonlight. Another man—another mage, in full Circle robes—was bracing him and; he spoke in a low, fast murmur.

“...He has become dangerous, yes. There are rumours. Meredith has not intervened—”

“—you’d expect her to?” Anders’s voice carried, now, sounding tired and strangely young.

“He hurts us.” The boy spoke, soft and slurred. “You’re both part of the Underground, aren’t you? You need to—”

“—they need to _take care,_ Fenyriel.”

Bethany watched as the bearded mage tried to draw the apprentice away from the bars. Anders was laughing. There were tears in it.

“You haven’t changed, love.”

“I—”

“— _Venhedis_.” Fenris tried to straighten, and Bethany bit back a groan as his strange, shifting magic flared out in the night air, and the spirit using her skin tried to reach toward it. “We cannot keep this up.”

“Thought you…could do anything,” the boy said, and Bethany realised that the compulsion came from both of them, Justice drawn to the power there as much as their words of help and fear and revenge. She swallowed. Took a step forward. Another. And when she spoke, she felt her voice sink away around the noise of a curious, angry spirit.

“ _ **Speak clearly**_ ,” Justice said, and part of Bethany reveled in the release that came from letting him. “ _ **I would hear of this Templar, before they start to wake.”**_

The Gallows was lit up in blue, and all eyes were on her face. She nodded to the child-somniari, who stared at her as if he had no idea—or _every idea_ —of what she was.

“ _ **These others do not listen, Dreamer? That is nothing. I**_ **will** _ **.**_ ”

 

 


	34. Dissent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nox's bedside manner leaves something to be desired, and Bethany learns of the Tranquil Solution.

_1\. Gods and verses_

The moon paled in the sky. In the Gallows, Templars and mages stirred in their beds, blinking sleep from their eyes, each alone in a fragile quiet while a half-grown boy sagged against the door to his cell.

Outside the walls, an apostate, a Magister, and the embodiment of Justice walked the streets three abreast. And all of them were angry.

“We have to help them.”

Any of them might have said it. Fenris, sore and sluggish from the effort of keeping Feynriel’s sleep deep and safe across the Gallows, muttered curses and imprecations as he and Anders helped a glaring, shivering Bethany through steadily worsening streets. Anders kept looking back. He had grasped Karl’s hands at the last, and there might have been tears, but now he was white lipped and words spilled out in furious bursts. _This_. _This is still wrong. It always was. We need_ _ **words.**_

“We don’t even have something to rally behind,” Anders said, tripping over a loose cobble. “I never thought of that. Andrastians have the whole bloody _Chant_.”

Bethany laughed, shaking her head. “Who says mages can’t be Andrastian, Anders?”

“I… _you_?” Anders spluttered, Fenris looking on. But—”

“Go on,” she said, resigned. “Just say it.”

The small, human words were odd in her mouth. Bethany had kept silent since her outburst at the Gallows. Her mouth still tasted of metal and sky, and each small movement felt unsettled, just slightly out of joint.

Ser Alrik, she knew, would not survive long.

Telling these people—telling _that boy_ , who had stared at her through the wrought gate as if she was beautiful and terrible and exactly what the world needed—was not sane.

 _At least I’ve still got_ that _much_ , she thought, imagining that she was back in Lothering, and glaring both Justice and her father down in the old, secret stretch of wild. _Maker._

“You’re walking around with _that_ inside you and you follow the words of a dead—oh, nevermind.” Anders shook his head. “We still need something else, you know. All of us.”

“Do you have a suggestion?”

Fenris groaned, meeting Bethany’s confusion with half a smile. “This will become tedious,” he said. “You have been warned.”

“A _manifesto_ ,” Anders said, the three of them trudging through the night.

* * *

 

_2\. Unexpected gifts_

“Look sharp. It’s the healer!”

“Messere, these boils—”

“—Maker choke on your boils, Rila. My Sadie can’t eat…”

The doorway to the clinic was crowded. Broken arms, the flux; weeping sores and dressings that needed changing. Births and black eyes and exhaustion, with Nox glaring in the middle of it.

“You look terrible.”

Bethany looked at the morning crowd, and down at her own bare feet. Had she worn shoes to the Gallows? She groaned. “I’ll be right in a minute, Nox. Everybody—”

“—everybody who isn’t broken or fevered should _go home_ ,” Nox declared. “The healer needs rest.”

“I’m _fine_. I just need to—”

“—to rest.” Nox was merciless. “So you can use what you have when people are actively dying. I can handle broken bones well enough.” She nodded as people started to shift. Some edged toward her, but most seemed to be backing away as far and as fast as they could. She felt herself smile. Bethany glared at her. Nox only shrugged.

“You’re not the healer,” she managed.

“Right now,” Nox said, “Neither are you.”

***

When Bethany woke, the clinic beds were full, and Nox was sweating over a child’s fractured leg.

“If you’re going to hit people,” she said, hands guarding a careful alignment of leg to splint, and starting to pull at straps. “People are usually going to hit you back. If they’re sensible.”

“The Marcher tit deserved it.”

Nox shrugged. “Hold still, now. This is the painful bit.”

“ _This_ —” The boy squeaked. “Can’t you magic things?”

The warrior wiped sweat from her brow and grinned at the child, a swift and wicked thing. “In a month, if you keep this splint and avoid getting hit, you’ll be able to walk without it. That’s magic enough for you.”

The child groaned, and Bethany smiled.

She saw the sureness of her hands.

* * *

 

_3\. Guarded debts_

By the time the two women sat in the clinic’s central chamber over a small, shared meal, Bethany felt almost human. Nox was tearing into bread as if it might bite her back, pale hair darkened where it stuck to her face from sweat. She was in shirtsleeves, her mismatched armor in a heap by her bed. Watching her, remembering the strangeness of the day, she could almost forget the sleeping horror at the Gallows, and the growing Tranquil there.

> _(”They’re calling it the Tranquil Solution_ ,” _Feynriel said, and the words made Anders flinch. They fell against Bethany like stones, and Justice took them up and swallowed them, glaring through the bars.)_

No. None of this.

“When did you learn to splint breaks?”

Nox shrugged, bread turning to chaff between anxious fingers. “Denarius’s service is not gentle.”

“You were, though.”

The other woman looked up, eyes huge in a strained face. “These people are clumsy, or children.”

Bethany smiled. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by not vanishing in the night, foolish abomination.” Nox snapped. “I can’t guard someone who is not there.”

The words were raw. Laughter, Bethany knew, was not the right response. She swallowed the urge, though it made her flush and her hands clench and an air bubble stick in her throat. She did want to laugh, because the care in Nox’s words made everything ache, imagining how she would respond to sight of her with the Fade spirit pressing out through her skin. She remembered Nox’s horror, when they first met. And now, the elvhen woman worried about her, and helped with broken bones.

“You don’t have to guard me,” Bethany said into the new silence.

“Between this clinic and running around after the pirate’s relic,” Nox muttered, “ _Someone should.”_

Bethany smiled, and tried for some of her sister’s old lightness. “So,” she said. “I come home delirious and covered in spider gunk _just the once_ , and that confirms I need a bodyguard? You’re worse than Marian.”

“Unlike Hawke,” Nox said, words slow and carefully spaced, “I am—I _know_ you do dangerous things.”

“I think my sister has the general idea.”

“Does she? Truly?”

Bethany scowled. “So you want to follow me and save me from myself, Nox? Because that is—”

“—Wrong.” Nox was on her feet, glaring down at the healer, face a mottled red. When had she stood? Bethany hadn’t seen it. Barely heard the catch and shout in her own voice that left her throat sore and tight. Her eyes ached. Sweat broke out on the back of her neck. And Nox was pacing.

Bethany swallowed. “Talk to me?”

“You saved my life,” Nox said. “And you kept saving it long enough that I feel—I—”

“—Nox, you don’t—”

“ _Venhedis_ , Bethany. I do. I will say this.” Nox leaned heavily against the wall, and Bethany wondered if she was going to kick it. It was also, Bethany realised, the first time she had heard Nox use her name. Not _abomination_ , or _the healer_ or even _my friend_. Just her name. Direct and unadorned.

“I owe you,” Nox said. “This is annoying. And I care for you, which is worse. Please, do not interrupt.”

Laugher, Bethany knew, was an even worse idea than before. It would be cruel. Blood filled her mouth as she bit down on her lip, and let herself slump forward against the table. She heard Nox sigh.

And, to her astonishment, felt the light press of the other woman’s palm against her shoulder.

“You are driven to dangerous things,” Nox said. “And I will not stop you. Not if you’re only hurting yourself.” Looking up, Bethany saw that she was smiling. “That’s your choice.”

Nox swallowed. “But let me follow,” she said, voice rough. “That would be my choice, if I could.”

* * *

 

_4. _Conspiracy and collaboration__

Hawke stared at the group filling her entrance hall. Bethany was in front, with Fenris and Anders flanking her. Fenris radiating discomfort like heat, and Anders looking defiantly around the room. Nox stood at the back, shifting from foot to foot, sword strapped to her back while Leandra exclaimed over them all from the upstairs railing.

Bethany spread her hands—a tiny, rueful shrug that said, _Sorry, sis. This is all true even if you say no, worse luck, and do you really want me to do this on my own?_ —and started to speak.

By the time she was done, Hawke was sitting on one of the middle steps, resisting the urge to pull out all her hair, and wishing Varric would saunter in and help the world make sense. Not that she would tell him that. The git was smug enough already.

Still, she wished he was here, listening to the mess and clamour and the madness of all of this. He would find some sort of _plot._ The decent kind, where Templars were less likely to kill you.

“Well,” Hawke said, aiming for eloquence and missing the part of herself that died somewhere between Ostegar and her brother. The part that used to have a joke always to hand, to break moments such as these. “ _Balls_.”

* * *

 

5\. _Slave caverns, redux_

“If there’s a secret tunnel,” Hawke said, wincing as she shook an ache out of her wrist, careful not to fall against the cave wall. Slavers lay crumpled at her feet. “Why do people even _stay?”_

“A mass exodus isn’t exactly subtle,” Anders sighed.

“I gave up on subtlety years ago.” Hawke shrugged. “I just look around some days, and I’m practically _swimming_ in apostates—”

“—thank you, sister.”

Hawke glowered, re-sheathing a dagger, and edging towards the tunnel’s exit. A thin ledge, overrun with scree and plantlife. Bethany joined her, one hand catching at hers briefly, before she moved on ahead, staff held tight. “What I mean is—”

“Quiet,” Fenris and Nox hissed, glaring at each other from opposite ends of the party.

“There are people nearby.”

Bethany was the first to see them. A mage in apprentice robes, and a Templar, smiling down.

* * *

_6\. Dissent_

There were whispers about Ser Alrik. Always had been, long before Ella had found herself gathered up and dropped in the midst of the Gallows, fire still stinging her hands and her mother’s appalled cries sneaking into the apprentice dormitories whenever she slept. Everyone kept away from him if they could. Boy, girl. Man. It mattered little. She’d seen Enchanter Karl, a big, gentle sort who repaired shelves and desks in the library with his _hands_ instead of magic, swallow and shudder and press against the wall when he passed.

And yes, the Templar did _glare,_ and if you caught him looking it made him smile, which was worse than mud spilling down the back of your neck. But the Gallows was full of whispers, and Ella never knew which held more weight. The same people who said Ser Alrik would snatch you in the night said that a _magister_ was living in Kirkwall, running the Mage underground from an abandoned mansion. They said there was a door, and a way out into the world, but that you had to be quick and quiet, and not afraid of spiders. When _that_ rumour proved true, the latch of the trap door sending a shock of hope up through her hand, Ella couldn’t sleep for a week.

Ella hated spiders, but she missed her mother more.

But then all the rumours came together—all the whispers became a shout—and she was outside, with a stone wall against her back and Ser Alrik smiling and standing far too close, and Ella wanted to weep.

“What do we do to mages who lie?”

He had an ordinary voice. Clipped. A little stern. Ella swallowed. “I just…I wanted to see my mum. No one ever—”

“—escape.” There were other words, but her blood was jittering and she couldn’t feel her fingers, and they all moved by in a rush. Alrik was closer. “You do know what happens to mage girls who don’t toe the line around here, don’t you?”

 _You. You admit your attempted escape. You, and you, and y—_ Ella shuddered. Whispers and lowered eyes and strangely empty seats. She fell to her knees. “…please don’t make me Tranquil,” she begged, her words a mess of sound and fear, shredded past her lips. “I’ll do anything.”

“That’s right.” Ser Alrik’s smile deepened. “Once you’re Tranquil, you’ll do anything I ask.”

“ _ **You fiends will never touch a mage again.”**_

Light. Heat. Sound. A voice in furious harmony with itself. Two daggers, attached to a whirling, laughing woman, while an elf in black robes pulled atr the Fade in a way that Ella felt from her toes to the back of her teeth. Lightening, too, and an elf with skin that glowed and the biggest sword Ella had ever seen, who stood with her back to a fire.

The fire was blue, and it sang, and there was a woman inside it, with a plain, wooden staff and cracking skin, with force magic so strong that Ella was knocked to her back, pressed flat to the ground. Her ribs would break. Ser Alrik was laughing, then he was screaming, and the elf with the sword had was everywhere at once, wherever the fire needed to go, and he was bleeding. He was bleeding. He was dying. He was _dead,_ and every last Templar would die for these abuses. Every. Last. One.

Shivering, staring at the dead and remembering how to breathe, Ella backed away. Everyone else was still, standing in a loose circle around one of the women.

“It’s over, Bethy,” someone said. “You can…stop now.”

“Can she?” Another voice. The woman with the sword, weary and covered in blood. Ella whimpered.

And Ella stared up into wide-set eyes that had given up under all the blue, and there was a hand at her throat. “Get away from me, demon!”

The glowing figure did not blink. Her hand tightened on Ella, human bones and strong, beneath all the strangeness and the static of another mage’s gift. “ _ **I am no demon**_ ,” said the demon. “ _ **Are you one of them, that you would call me such?”**_

> (”Bethany!” Hard anger, bright warning. ”It’s finished, and you need to get over yourself. _Now._ ”
> 
> (”I don’t think that’s your sister, Hawke.”
> 
> “Of _course_ she’s my sister, you arrogant, magesterial—”)

“ _ **Every last one of them will feel Justice’s—”**_

A scream. Long, and ragged, and not her own. The hand fell away.

When Ella opened her eyes, she saw the demon bent over, her head in her hands, falls of black hair hiding the angry, glowing face. The warrior elf stood over her, her markings glowing and a look of disgust and despair twisting her face. Ella could smell smoke. Heard a sad, pained, very human sound in the demon’s sobs.All while the other figures stood still and stared, and Ser Alrik stayed dead at their feet.

The demon lifted her head, and Ella thought she saw scorch marks on her cheeks. She looked straight at Ella, and her eyes were brown. Warm, and human, and terrified. “I nearly—” She turned, voice cracking, tears showing grey against her skin, as if she cried through ash. “—Nox, if you hadn’t—”

The demon ran, and though hands reached out to stop her, no one dared enough to touch.

 

 


	35. Comfort and care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela has a mission. Nox has uncomfortable thoughts. Marian Hawke worries about her sister. Bethany takes comfort where she can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to taokan, who seems to love this story even more than I do.

_1\. danger and desire_

Bethany was not hard to find.

Her armor was strewn about the floor, the metal carrying a dark, oily sheen that had not been there before. The room stank of smoke and old magic, the acidic tang of burnt lyrium harsh in the back of Nox’s throat, making her shudder.

Bethany sat curled over her worktable, Nox she wanted to chide her it. When people ran, they needed to _run_ , to lose as much of themselves as they could. Instead, Bethany sat in the center of her own space, fisted hands pulling at her hair, and tears dripping silent through every crack Nox could see.

“I know you’re there.”

Nox shrugged. “I was not trying to hide.”

Silence. Bethany raised her head. “You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t—”

“—Mage.”

“ _Abomination_ ,” Bethany snapped. “That’s your word, isn’t it?” She stood. Sat. Stood again, her movements jerky and fast, her eyes wide and bloodshot. “I almost killed that girl.”

“Yes,” Nox said.

“…yes?”

“If you’re going to repeat useless facts,” Nox muttered, looking down at her own feet as she walked towards her friend, letting a hand rest on the scarred, stained table. “I’ll simply hand them back to you.”

When she looked up, Nox saw that Bethany was staring.

“Are you trying to reassure me?”

The world was too small and her skin was too tight. Bethany bit at her lower lip. A flash of teeth, a tiny tug and pull of skin. And a smile, slowly growing in the corner of her mouth.

Nox cleared her throat. “Is it working?”

Bethany hugged her. It felt like a piece of mage trickery: time speeding and slipping and her world turned into warmth and lingering drifts of ozone and ash and the other woman’s heartbeat, too fast against Nox’s cheek. She twitched. “Mage, I don’t—”

“—I know, I’m sorry.” Pressure. Release. Bethany stepped back, weary and rueful. “I didn’t mean to accost you.”

Nox struggled to hold her place. She should run. The need tightened her throat. Broke through her skin in sweat. And Nox did not recognise the part of herself that reached out and cupped Bethany’s face. She brushed her thumb over the human’s cheekbone, her own eyes widening at the motion even as Bethany’s fluttered closed. “It’s—”

Salt and leather polish, and a held breath. A creaking floor.

Someone else was in the room.

Nox spun, and Isabela stepped out of the shadowed doorway with a shrug and a wry smile.

“I’m interrupting something,” she said, real apology in her voice. “Was it just about to get good?”

Bethany stepped away from Nox, face tightening back into wary lines, flickers of blue running over her skin. “Isabela?”

The pirate sighed. “I heard you weren’t yourself, sweet.”

Silence.

“I think,” Nox muttered, “That was meant to be amusing.”

Isabela’s shoulders started to shake.

“Get it, Bethy? _Not your_ —”

“— _Maker._ ” The words were choked. “That’s poor form.”

“I thought it was genius.”

Bethany snorted. “You would.”

“You’re not always this repetitive. Please stop. It could get boring.”

Watching the two of them, seeing Bethany’s helpless grin and the warm, accomplished pleasure that shone through every line of Isabela’s body as she watched and smiled and told her terrible jokes, Nox took a step back. “I should go.”

“Oh, no!”

Bethany and Isabela made terrible unison. They both winced. Isabela stepped forward. “Don’t you dare, Nox. I actually came here for help.”

“Don’t you always?” Bethany sighed. “I know I can’t keep haring off with you to find that bloody relic. Ask my sister. She’s _good_ with spiders.”

“Nox’s scowl rivals Hawke’s,” Isabela said, blowing an escaped curl of hair off her face, wrinkling her noise when it immediately fell back over her eye. “And I need a good blade.”

Nox considered this. “Don’t you alw—”

“ _No,_ this time I’m actually serious. It’s time to see a man about some gold.” Isabela sighed, the curl dancing. “Don’t make me ask Hawke, darlings. If I ask Hawke, then everything will get complicated.”

Bethany bit her lip. “That’s—”

“—not inaccurate,” Nox conceded.

“See?”

“Oh, very well,” Bethany said. “But only because you’re impossible.” She paused, looking about her at the mess of discarded armor. “Give me a minute to fix my things.”

Isabela shrugged. “Whatever works, sweet thing. Besides, it’ll distract you.” A slow, sweet smile. “Though Nox seemed to be doing a good enough job of that before I got here.”

Watching Bethany blush, Nox thought, was even more embarrassing than listening to Isabela’s babble.

* * *

_2. dreams of dailiness_

Bless Aveline and her Guard errands.

Find Emeric. That was the brief. Simple, and probably tedious, and a welcome reprieve from demons and magic and the panic she felt, watching Bethany stand over that girl, someone else’s voice tangling with her own. She should go to the clinic. She should tell their mother, who would straighten her spine and march through Darktown’s labyrinth with fire in her eyes, and _make_ Bethany come home. Right now. Right this instant.

Ther image of Leandra, chin lifted, eyes narrowed, telling Bethany that, “Justice will just have to mind his manners,” was distracting enough that she nearly walked into a wall.

“Careful, killer.” Warm hands gripped her above the elbow. “You’ll ruin that carefully cultivated image.”

Cù leaned in from her other side, letting out a quizzical whine as he pressed against her shins.

Hawke scowled.

“That’s better,” Varric said. “Mind sharing the story behind that smile?”

“Er…” Hawke shook her head. “It’s nothing. It’s silly.”

“Silly,” Varric opined, “Is the best sort of nothing.” He released her slowly, leather gauntlets soft and worn where they brushed her skin. A bowman’s gear. He smiled at her, eyes warm and concerned.

“I just—” she swallowed. “I worry about my family.”

“Now that,” Varric said, “Isn’t silly at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry the chapter took this long! And that's it's so short. The next one is an interlude (plot! There be plot!) and it felt right to give Bethany, Nox, and Hawke some time after the Dissent chapter. I didn't mean to have quite this much time in _between_ chapters, mind, but I had a change of employment, amongst other things, and found it hard to get back into the AU headspace. Should be fixed now. Hope you enjoyed!


	36. Interlude V: Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Circle dreams.

Meanwhile, in the Circle of Magi...

> _Fight and fire and fury. It shapes you. Seeps through your skin in a wild tangle of blue light that shows in the eyes of the Templar at your feet. He sobs. You watch him. Watch as he grabs at your boots, then your knees. He draws himself up in a crawling plea, and his armor scrapes the stones. You grasp his sword. It’s light in your hands, your grip white knuckled. He watches the blade, and he is a fool for it, because your free hand is outstretched and strong, and you make a fist around your own power, pulling from the Fade and crushing him flat before he knows his own ribs have turned to dust._
> 
> _“ **Justice will be served.”**_

* * *

 

Across the Circle, mages shifted in their beds. Some woke, but there were less every day. The dream was a small constant in the Fade, though the Templar’s face tended to change. A lyrium-addled relic one night shifting into a whimpering recruit the next. Sometimes, Knight Commander Meredith was there, her tears silent and furious even in an awed apprentice’s dreaming. But she still died. Every night. And mages woke to a sense of surprise that they were in their own, ordinary bodies.

Old men looked down at their large, pale hands and expected a woman’s long, dark ones. A new, elven apprentice spent hours letting his own green-tinged power play across his fingers, just to ensure that it hadn’t turned acid-etch blue in the night. First Enchanter Orsino breathed in the familiar scents of his own room, and wondered how he was swallowing someone else’s ozone and smoke.

Ella wept until her voice had worn thin, clutching her own face and telling her teachers that she was _safe_ , that she’d been _safe._ She spent her nights in the infirmary.

And Karl Thekla watched Feynriel with haunted eyes.

* * *

“This has to stop.”

Apprentices and Harrowed Mages did not mix outside the schoolroom. This law was as old as clandestine meetings in the library, where words were muffled by tomes and shelves and careful, quiet watches. And Karl was good at snatching time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re hurting people,” Karl said, voice very low and steady, one hand falling forward to rest over the opened scroll the boy was reading. The words that he could see around his own hand were faded and scawled, but clearly Tevene. He could see it in the shape the sentances made, even when his poor eyesight made the words blur.

Feynriel scowled. “Everyone hurts, here.”

“So you’ll add to it, like a cruel child?” It took effort not to shake him. Pain spiked up through his jaw. “ _How_ are you adding to it?”

More spikes. Karl let his eyes close, forced his hand to drop away from the scroll.

“I don’t,” Feynriel repeated, his own jaw clenched, “know what you’re talking about, Enchanter Karl. Please leave me alone.”

“Did Fenris teach you this?”

“If you don’t leave,” Feynriel said, hunching forward over his work, “I will shout for the Templars. And you can discipline me all you like—they’ll _still_ be watching you.”

* * *

_A._

_Your M needs to talk more in his sleep. Concerned about other walkers. Too many nightmares. Keep an eye out, my friend. I never did say how glad I was that you weren’t dead, ~~you delightful fool~~. If I don’t tell you to keep safe, perhaps you’ll listen this time._

_Yours ever,_

_KT._

* * *

The note was small. It had to be. Mistress Selby had strict limits on what she should send, what she would hide. Anders looked at his old friend’s elliptical words, and felt a new weight settle cold and heavy in his gut. Sighing, he let the slip of paper fall to the desk.

“What news?”

Anders twisted, hair falling into his face as he met Fenris’s eyes from the doorway.

“How did you know?”

A small shrug. “I know you,” he said, ducking his head to hide a smile that added to the ache in Anders’s chest. “Though it’s more accurate to say that I stopped to see if Mistress Selby had any news, and she told me you’d already been by.”

“No sudden, alarming powers of observation?” Anders chuckled, even as he retrieved the scrap and held it out to the other man. “I’m relieved.”

Warm fingers closed over his. “You’re safe from that.”

All humor drained from Fenris’s expression as he read the note.

“The boy has told me nothing.”

“Do you think he _would_?” Anders sighed. “In his defense, he’s fifteen. And you do keep calling him _the boy_.Doesn’t exactly inspire confidences.”

“He’s—” Fenris groaned, and Anders caught his wrists before the elf could start pulling at his hair. “He’s young. And he is punctual. We’ve met in the Fade every night for the past month. He heeds his lessons.”

“It takes a lot to worry Karl, love.” Anders shook his head, eyes dropping to their joined hands. “Trust me,” he said, wincing. “I know. And you were there for some of it.”

Fenris’s blush crept to the back of his neck, but he did not pull away. “I _could_ influence the dreams of an entire household, if I wished,” he admitted. “But every mage in that Circle?” he scowled. “Hawke was a fool, sending him there.”

“Water is wet, kittens are soft, and an angry, decisive Hawke is a dangerous combination,” Anders said with an old, crooked smile. “And perhaps you could affect a full Circle, love. You’ve just never had to find out.”

* * *

_Sleep._

Feynriel felt them all. Each sleeping mind, linking into the Fade in patterns that, if he concentrated hard, flared bright against his closed eyes, even when he kept himself in the waking world. He felt Karl, and feeling led to finding, until he stood at the edges of worried thoughts and long-dead mothers and an Anders who looked younger than he was, scrappy and scraped up and miserable in Circle robes. The older man had simple dreams, more often than not. Woodworking, and a fear of falling. A little girl with hair as dark as his own, speaking a language Feynriel did not know. Ser Alrik was a regular spectre. Feynriel banished him with half a thought.

“Dreams,” Fenris had said, months before, “Want to change.”

Feynriel changed them. He gave them Justice, the bright glory he had seen on the other side of the Gallows gates. Justice fought Templars. Justice turned an ordinary, human body into something incandescent. A gift.

 _I’m giving a gift_ , he thought. But Karl would worry. Karl would tell.

So Fenyriel sought out the older mage’s connection to the Fade, and he acted on instinct. He held it. Held it firm, held it fast, until Karl’s dreams dimmed around him, and the this small space of the Fade was quiet.

 _It’s just for a while_ , he thought. _Just for a little, so he thinks I’ve stopped._

* * *

When Templar Recruit Keran passed through the Enchanter’s quarters the next morning, he paused in Karl Thekla’s doorway. The man was standing over small piles of his own clothing, arms loose at his sides, his body over-still.

“Enchanter Karl?”

Nothing.

“Mage?”

When the man turned, Keran took a step backwards. “Sweet _Andraste_.”

Karl blinked. “It seems I have woken up in the wrong quarters, Templar Recruit. Assistance would be welcome.”

“You’re…are you trying to be funny? You’re not…”

Karl waited.

“Say something!”

“You did not indicate that you required a response, Templar Recruit.”

“You’re—you’re _not—_ ” Keran said. “There isn’t a mark on you.”

“I have not been marked,” Karl said, toneless.

Keran ran from the room, and Karl waited.

Tranquil. 


	37. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denarius as a plan. Fenris has a headache, while Anders dreads the cause. Knight Commander Meredith has a problem. And Leandra Hawke wants to find her youngest daughter.

_1\. The Archon’s displeasure_

(MEANWHILE, IN MINRATHOUS…)  
  


It was a good cell. The Archon knew it. The captive’s remaining friends in the magesterium, powerful enough to protest with spikes if required, knew it, and kept their silence. There was no getting out, but food did come in. Food, light, and all the prison’s magebane were kept in clear, safe sight.

Castor Aubericus looked up from his desk.

“I can’t imagine what you want with me.”

Denarius smiled. “Truly? Sad, that. Life in here has dulled your wits.” He leaned forward, letting a hand rest on a copy of Genetivi’s _Tales from Beneath the Earth,_ fingers picking at the binding. “And the Archon seems determined to keep you.”

“People died.”

A laugh for that, Denarius shook his head and draw back from the tome. “This is our home, Aubericus,” he said. “You know it as well as I, even if you did waste half your life in Seheron. Your son has done remarkably well there, I’m told. He’s what, thirty now? Quite the leader.” Still smiling, Denarius pressed one hand to the cell wall. Spiders died, small legs skittering to the ground.

“Terrible housekeeping,” said Denarius.

Castor sighed. “Do you have a point?”

“But you’re here all day!” Denarius sighed. “All you have to talk to the right people, and I’m sure the Archon would free you. Formalities, all of that.”

“Would you take my place?” Castor stood, sick of the other man looming over him. He did his best not to lean against the wall. “We’re the ones most responsible for Funalis.”

 _“Such_ honour.” Denarius bowed. “You didn’t kill a soul. Fenris, however—”

“—is not here.”

“And you sit out the Archon’s displeasure on his behalf. For years. Was he _that_ good a student? No, don’t answer that—”

“—I—”

“— _you_ ,” Denarius said, smile warm, “Are going to assist me. You tolerate your captivity well, but you are overburdened with ethics. You have turned into a moral pack mule as you age. It’s almost admirable.” His nod, saying this, was nearly a bow. “But all this, Aubericus, doesn’t make me think you can bear your own son’s death. Seheron is a dangerous place.”

Denarius was not subtle. He revelled in it. Castor knew a player in Qarinus with a more outrageous head for dialogue, but only just. He had grown up a handful of years behind the other man, watching him use favourite phrases to charm or appall or for easy cruelty. He had watched him bait Fenris, had always enjoyed his former apprentice’s ability to look Denarius dead in the eye and tell him to shut up.

Castor had a single heir. Seheron was a dangerous place.

“There is nothing I can do for you.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Denarius said. “Of course there is.”

 

* * *

_2\. Voices in the night_

(KIRKWALL)

 

Fenris woke in tangled sheets and scream trapped somewhere between his skin and his skull.

The headache was bad enough that Fenris could not remember how to open his eyes. He wanted to. Desperately. He was awake, sweat-stuck and nearly screaming, eyes heavy enough that a small, gibbering part of him was sure that they’d fall right through and out the other side of his skull. Muscles twitched. None them worked.

Cool fingers pressed under his jaw. The touch shifted, strengthened. Lips brushed his temple and strong thumbs moved down again to the back of his neck, muscles spasming before easing back. The air was full of low words. _Hush_ and _love?_ And _Come out of it, now. We’re both here._

Here. The pair of them.

Fenris forced open sticky eyes, and saw that Anders was smiling.

“Well,” Anders said, fingers still cooler than Fenris’s skin, even as sweat stood out on the healer’s forehead. “That did look awful.”

“I—”

He tried again. “Anders, I—”

“And you’re using my name,” Anders said. “This is ominous—”

“—your friend,” Fenris said. “Karl Thekla. He is—” Fenris looked away, new spikes of pain waking up through his shoulders as he hunched forward. He heard Anders’s caught breath, felt the bed shift under tense weight.

“Tell me.”

* * *

_3\. Hear my cry_

 

“ _Tranquil.”_

Orsino kept saying the word. The more he said it, the less sense it made. The Knight Commander swallowed, scowling as her jaw clicked and pain moved down into her neck. She felt as if she’d been jointed with hot wire.

“No Templar can make your mages Tranquil in their beds, First Enchanter.”

“Are you saying you didn’t order it?”

The man was distraught. His eyes were bloodshot. He shone outrage—sweat and spittle and shaking fingers. Meredith was used to insubordination from Orsino. She was used to cowardice. Thwarted anger. Conciliation. She was _used_ to him. But now the nervous energy coming from the the man had a metallic taste to it, her body thrumming to his pulse rather than her own in expectation of magical attack. She would kill him. Must, if he broke. But she had not thought to see him this close.

“You know the rite as well as I,” she said. No need to let his death slip into her voice. No need to tip him. Maker guard her breath, ease her heart. “The Templars cannot do it alone.” Her lips thin. It’s that, or smile, and a smile might crack them both. “It is your single gift to us, First Enchanter.”

“Listen, you arrogant—”

“— _you_ listen, Orsino,” Meredith snapped. “You come here, flailing and full of accusations, when there is something in this Circle that is acting without your control.”

“Without _your_ control?”

“Without,” Meredith said. “Leave. We will stop it. Perhaps, by the end, you shall have adequate time to construct a semblance of an excuse.”

* * *

 

_4\. Outrage_

 

Anders pushed through Darktown. He stumbled. Sleeves and hems caught in doorways. He moved fast, heedless of low doorways and nearly tripping over other people’s children, while Fenris swore in his shadow.

“This is not a good idea.”

“Can you think of a better one?”

“ _Venhidis.”_

 _“_ I thought so. _”_

The headache was back. It had resurfaced the second Anders had drawn away, appalled and wild-eyed and unable to look at him, and grew worse with every step. A woman was moving close behind, her movements tight and panic-fast. He could hear her breathing. Someone was burning trash behind them.

“The girl might not—”

“—It’s not Bethany Hawke I’m interested in,” Anders snapped. They could see the clinic’s door, now. The small lantern guttered, splashing light up against support beams Anders’s strained face. Fenris braced himself; he expected, and saw, Nox’s lean, wary shape in the doorway. She’d seen them. She stood narrow-eyed and wary, stepping forward as Anders pushed ahead.

“What did you say about my daughter?”

Fenris stopped. Nox stopped. Anders did not, plowing into her and falling forward until Nox, lip curled in distaste, caught him by the forearms. But her eyes were fixed on a spot behind Fenris’s shoulder, the unfamiliar voice loud between them all. Fenris turned.

The woman who had followed them was still talking, her voice low and clipped, iron grey hair falling into familiar eyes.

“I know you people,” she said. “Most of you. You were with my children on that expedition. Don’t deny it. All of you.”

Nox’s distaste had sharpened. She was glaring. “Are you ill, lady? If you are not, then—”

“—Where is my daughter?”

“Hawke is not with us,” Fenris said. “You are Leandra?”

The woman closed her eyes, palm pressing up into her forehead, fingers tangling briefly in her own hair. “You are all terribly rude,” she said. “And this _place_ —Bethany cannot be here, but, oh, _Maker_ I—is she? Where is Bethany?”

“Not here,” Nox said.

Anders spluttered. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “She’s always here. We need— _I_ need—” he swallowed, looking back at Leandra Hawke and, Fenris thought, presumably decided better than to blurt out, _I need Justice_ in chilly, parental hearing.

Nox kept her face expressionless. Even the glare had faded. “She’s with Isa-with the pirate,” she said, stilted. “The day has been long.”

“And who is _that_?” Leandra’s hands were clenched as she looked at them all, Bethany’s dark eyes unfamiliar in the regal face.

“Not important,” Nox said, and Fenris saw Varania in the slow shift of her weight and set of her jaw that made him ache. “Not to you, I’m sure.”

Leandra drew herself up. “I don’t know what you—”

“—and I do not know you either,” Nox said. “Which is strange, given that your daughter has been down here for three years and I have never seen you. I know little of mothers, but that does not seem right.”

Fenris stared, unsure whether to smile or shake his head as the human woman grew purple around the edges.

“Who _are_ you?” she asked at last, eyes bright with some hectic combination of embarrassment and rage and, Fenris thought, grief.

“Hers, I think,” Nox said.

She stepped back through the door and closed it, hard, on all of them.


	38. Hope and bitter pills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela searches. Nox finds. There is a world of trouble. And awful metaphors.

_1\. Isabela’s hope._

Kirkwall had more taverns than the Hanged Man, no matter what Varric said.

Isabela was determined to see the inside of them all by the end of the night. She slipped and strode and kept just ahead of Bethany in narrow doorways, smile brittle-bright in the rare times she looked behind, waiting for the younger girl to catch up. Sometimes, music skirled around them: three-step, six-step, full of laughter. Sometimes, the two of them barely stayed long enough for Isabela to ask one question and flip a table when the answer came back with knives. They moved fast enough that even Justice was baffled, a fizzing murmur of disapproval at the taste of beer in her mouth or someone’s too-warm smirk.

Conversations tangled. They were stories of her sister more often than they weren’t, but Bethany kept catching whispers the missing and the dead. Women and white flowers. A templar, stooped and shadowed in a dock tavern that was barely big enough to hold its whiskey bottles, kept talking about bodies in bags.

Bethany’s muscles locked.

“Did you hear that, Isabela?”

“Hmm?”

“That templar,” Bethany hissed. The one with a sleeve in his beer. Just _listen—”_

Isabela’s arm circled her waist as they left the gloomy shop. “You’re blue about the edges, sweet.”

“Can’t you hear what they’re saying?”

Isabela sighed gustily. “None of it’s what I’m looking for.”

“It would help,” Bethany muttered, “If I knew what you were looking for.”

“It wouldn’t, you know.” Isabela’s arm dropped, and Bethany did her best not to wince.

“I don’t—”

“Oh, hush.”

Bethany squeaked as teeth closed over her earlobe.

“Stop distracting me,” Bethany said, voice only shaking a little as she pulled away, hands quick as they fixed her hair. Someone was whistling. The air was clammy on her skin, flashes of water showing as oily darkness though the worn, wooden slats of the pier. 

“ _You_ need it,” Isabela said. “All that time locked away in Darktown, being virtuous. Have you and Nox even—the blush says no.” She wrinkled her nose. “People always make things complicated,” she said. She leaned out over the pier’s railing, shivering as the wind picked up.

Conversations with Isabela twisted and repeated and made beautiful messes. Bethany’s head hurt. “You’re…distracting me by distracting me?”

“Don’t think too much about it,” the pirate said. There was a plea in it. A raw thread, loose under the laughter.

Bethany looked at the woman who had been her friend and a headache; warm hands when she was lost in her own skin. The woman with her terrible jokes and rambling stories that lost their ends around their middles. The woman who had reminded her, spirit-skin and all, what it felt like to kiss. The woman who dared; who tricked and pushed and who, Bethany knew, was going to lie as soon as she asked her question.

“Are you in trouble, Isabela?”

The pirate gripped her hand, and kept walking. Bethany squeezed back. The truth in her friend’s silence was a gift.

When they returned to the clinic, Anders and Fenris were loitering by Bethany’s door.

“What did you do?” Isabela asked. She grinned. Bethany watched the expression grow from the corner of her eye. Bright and warm and a new, shining page that covered the rest of the evening.

_Maker. Isabela’s not the only one who’s rotten with metaphors._

Anders gripped Bethany’s upper arm. “What did you _do_?”

Raw words in the crowded space. Fenris moved to pull the man away. She felt Isabela at her back, light on her feet as Bethany kept solid, still. Anders pulled himself to his feet, hand still on her. He used her weight as a brace, and Bethany was grateful for the evening spent forcing Justice into quiet within her skin.

The part of her that wanted to throw him into her wall was squished down by the part that saw his unshaven face. His eyes were wide, the white showing. She felt muscles twitch in his hand. Watched the nervous cascade up his arm. Sweat darkened his hairline, collected in the base of his long throat. He was terrified. Not, she thought, for himself.

Besides. Nox had put a lot of work into the wall.

“Talk to me,” she said.

He shuddered. “The Circle,” said Anders.  “Did you do something?”

He shook. He’d torn his usual tie from his hair and it fell about his face. It got in his eyes. Close as they stood, it was nearly in hers. “Not you,” he said. “But _you_.”

Anders poked her hard in the chest. “You-Justice,” he said. “You- _spirit._ That boy talks to spirits. The one we found. The one Fenris teaches. The one your _stupid-fool_ sister put into the Gallows, where he’d get angry. Where he’d _test_ things. Where he’d do anything to get out.” Half a laugh, thin and stinging. “And I should know,” he said.

“I’d do the same thing, if someone came into my head and said, while I was locked up: _look how much we can scare everyone_. People lash out. It’s the one powerful thing in a lot of worlds. Doesn’t always work—”

“—Anders.”

Fenris’s voice. Cracking and strange as it tried for gentle.

Anders pulled away, turned to glare at the other man.

“Don’t _hush_ me,” he said.

“Anders,” Bethany said. “Please tell me what happened.”

“Feynriel,” Anders said, not quite looking at Fenris, and unable to focus on her own face. “Has done something. And my friend woke up Tranquil for it.”

Bethany’s door opened in the silence. Nox glared at them all.

“I didn’t spend all day fending off mothers and locking you out to have you scream like you’re dying outside my door. Come inside,” she said. “And sort yourselves out.”

As they all filed in—even Fenris, even Anders, who was crying now—Bethany could not help the small, selfish, entirely human part of herself that smiled as Nox said ‘ _my’._

_My home. She said: “ **My home**_ **.”**

* * *

The group did not sort themselves out. Fenris, Anders and Isabela snipped at each other over Bethany’s table while she took stock of her ingredients and Nox reinforced the lock on their door.

“Justice has…been insistent, about Feynriel, yes,” she said, hands full of dried blood lotus that stung the corners of her eyes and inside of her mouth. But mages _can’t_ make each other Tranquil. It doesn’t—we couldn’t—”

“Fenris can,” Anders said.

The room stopped breathing.

“And so, dread Tevinter rises,” Fenris muttered. “My thanks.”

“Was that sarcasm?” Isabela laughed, startled. “Well _done_.”

“He can,” Anders said, shoulders hunched. “And so can Feynriel. It’s a somniari thing.”

“Not one that I knew,” said Bethany. She sighed, doing her best not to look away from Anders in his distress. Fenris was still staring at the table, jaw tight. He flinched as Isabela let her hand rest companionably near his own.

“ _Justice_ might know,” Anders said, blind to the byplay. “Andraste’s over-worn garters, even your _dad_ might know. Does he? You can check.”

“Please don’t do that,” Isabela said into the appalled silence. “Remembering that a bit of Justice is Big Paternal Elder Hawke is always awkward.”

“Whose fault is that?” Anders snapped. “I’m not the one who—”

“—all of you,” Bethany said. “Just _shut up_.”

There was no spirit in the words. No lightning or death or a vibration to shake the floor. Her words just fell into the tired, bickering midst of them. Small, heavy and sad.

Nox came to her, fisting a hand in the back of Bethany’s shirt. “Come,” she said. “Enough of this. Air. Now.”

“But—”

“Nothing,” Nox said. “Come with me.”

* * *

 

_2\. A bitter pill._

The elf released her as soon as they’d left the first turns to the clinic behind. She shook out her hand, looking almost apologetic, but kept moving, close to Bethany’s side. The rest of them followed. Silent. Bewildered. Bethany wasn’t sure if she wanted to shout at Nox or kiss her.

No. No kissing today. She wanted to huddle or scrub out her own skin. She wanted to go back along Isabela’s miserable dockside trail; find the Templar who’d been talking about dead women and do some good with it. She wanted her sister. Marian knew what to do with anger. Made it useful. Gave it an edge.  

She wanted her father. Wanted him alive. Outside and laughing and clean, and her mother, too. A mother who met her eyes and told stories and hated laundry, who kept a box of letters that gave her memories of this place that had broken the minute she’d seen Gamlen’s face, and learnt what her children needed to get inside the walls.

She wanted Carver, annoying and fierce and twin-close and ever-distant, and she even wanted the little Lothering house that, before the Blight, might have been home.

Bethany no longer knew. Her memories of it were bloodied by Justice looking out of her father’s dead eyes on the grass behind their house. His lessons. The taste of power in her mouth and the way those bandits screamed. She thought of Lothering, and Lothering gave her that, along with her twin’s body left in the village’s dying smoke.

Nox was right. Air might make a good second to her sister. Bethany quickened her pace. Took Nox’s hand and went further, faster, and not caring if the others followed. The city’s dirt and tile and cobble turned to loose scrub as they came toward the sea, low cliffs rising, dawn tinging the grey stone with nearly enough light for life.

Nox’s head jerked.

Men in Tevinter leathers stared down at them from the cliffs.

Bethany, looking at them, suddenly hoped that the others had followed after all. Nox’s hand was slack and clammy in her own.

Fenris spoke. Low, liquid and incomprehensible Tevene from which Bethany picked only names. _Nox_ twisted out of _Varania_ with half a breath, and all the words were so quiet Bethany felt more than heard them, flesh prickling at every sibilant. She heard Anders echo in the same language, faint and strange. Heard Isabela’s daggers as they scraped from thigh and wrist sheathes.

Nox did not look behind, but her mouth moved.

“I will. Not. Run.”

“ _Hunters_ ,” Anders said. It was a gasp, his hands coming up, wreathed in sparks to hide their shaking. Fenris stepped in front of him. Tried to push in ahead of Bethany, elbows out. Furious.

One of the fighters stepped forward. Dark eyed. Cold. He looked almost bored. “Stop right there,” he said. “You are in possession of stolen property.”

Bethany tightened her grip on Nox’s hand, and did not know her own voice when she spoke. Sharp. Smiling. Almost her sister’s. “Is that your first offer? Because it’s not a good one.”

“I will not repeat myself.” The hunter spat between his feet.

Bethany caught Fenris’s flinch. She did not let go of Nox’s hand. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears. She felt Nox’s pulse against her own wrist. Knew her eyes widened as Nox squeezed back.

“Back away,” the hunter said. “Back away from the slave now.”

Light flared. The air charged thick with burning hair and skin. Nox pushed forward, ripped her hand from Bethany’s, each mark catching light one from the other and other, until she was blinding, raging. She beckoned, taunting, sword light in her hand as she stared at the hunters on their cliffs.

“I am _not_ a slave,” she said.

* * *

The world narrowed to fighting. Blocks and breaks. Nox moved with the hard-won Fenris remembered from Minrathous, where Varania had been proud of every split lip and broken nose. She was magnificent. Terrifying. Faster than she looked when carrying more than half her weight,

She was the same now, in this one thing. She was point and wild, Fenris and Anders and Bethany fanning out at her back. Fenris felt their magics bleed, one into the other, while the Fade frayed around them.

He brought demons in. Rage to match his sister, and spat as the hunters screamed. Isabela struck at hamstrings and kidneys. Kicked sand and flung stones, the water at her back and stance sure.

They did not take long to die.

“I won’t let you take her.” His own words, in Bethany Hawke’s cracking, doubled voice. Nox was bent over the one breathing body. She’d twisted his arms up. Had a knee in his back. A young man. Boy, perhaps. Hair soft and eyes sheened over with tears. Fenris watched his sister shudder.

Green eyes met his own.

_Do you ask, or shall I?_

Fenris could only stare, heart beating too fast in his chest as she blinked and scowled. When she shook her head, he imagined it was to block him out.

“Where is he?” she demanded, voice rough. Her hand tightened. The boy’s face smashed into the sand.

“Please—don’t. Please don’t kill me.”

Smash. “Tell her,” Fenris said.

If Nox heard, she gave no sigh. Blood sheeted from a cut to her scalp. “ _Tell me_.”

“I don’t know! I know, I _swear_. The m-mm-magister Aubericus said— _Castor’s_ at the holding caves, north of the city.”

Fenris rocked back. The name slipped in and gutted him, fast as Isabela’s knives. Left him slack and staring at his own insides as Nox’s chin lifted and a sneer curled her lip.

“I can show toy the way!” the boy whispered. His lips were cracked. Covered in sand and blood.

“No need,” Nox said. “I know which ones you speak of.”

“Then let me go,” said the boy, wriggling. “I beg you. I swear I won’t—I—”

Crack. No blood. No magic. Just the twist of strong hands too far to the right.

“You chose the wrong master.”

Nox released the corpse and laughed. “Castor,” she said. “Castor Aubericus?” Her eyes were huge, flicking from Fenris to Anders and back again. She smiled with bloody teeth and turned away. “I was a fool to think I was free.” Slow laughter. Wondering. Appalled. “They’ll never let me be.”

“Is this…” Bethany swallowed. Tried again. “Someone you know?”

“Should say it, _brother_?” The word burned. Unmeant. Re-shaped. “Or shall I?”

 


	39. Foxhole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris meets his old master. They have both changed. There is bickering. Also gore.

**IN THE SLAVE TUNNELS…**

Five tried to fit in a space wide enough for two. Nox found that the one thing stronger than her desire to push forward—into her death, or out the other side someone else’s—was her distaste at having to touch Fenris as she did so. The man kept one infuriating half step ahead.

He had no right to look haunted. No right to fury, his steps too loud in the close dark. She heard Anders talking. _Always_ talking, in a rapid rise-fall-rise that let his panic through even as he attempted to soothe.

“This is homey,” he said, running his fingers over a broken fresco. “How long did we spend in here, Fenris? Three weeks?”

“Two,” said Isabela, while Fenris stared solidly ahead. “ _Felt_ like three, with you two bickering the whole time.”

Nox caught her grin, the gleam of gold necklaces and daggers under mage light.

“Ah,” Anders said, stumbling at a new corner. “That’s not even counting Minrathous.” A pause. “Or Qarinus. Or Par Vollen. Though slave tunnels built for Qunari aren’t exactly cramped—”

Nox’s palms stung from sweat. “Are you going to list every town you chased me through?” she snapped. “You’ll give Castor’s men ideas.”

“About that” Isabela said, slow and thoughtful, reaching up from behind to clasp Nox’s hand, then grip Fenris’s shoulder. “Fenris’s master is working for Nox’s master even though Fenris’s master has been prison, _for Fenris_ , for years. ” She grimaced. “I hate Tevinter.”

“He is _not_ my master!”

The words flew. Sharp and fast. Nox met her brother’s eyes and wished she hadn’t. Still haunted. Still, she thought, worse than anything Merrill looked for in her broken mirror. Her fingertips were numb. She was half sure she stood outside herself, watching her own mouth move in ugly time his.

Fenris looked away first.

“Fair enough,” Isabela said.

Nox wanted to to push through the walls. She could try, she thought. Tiles would crack and fall with the effort, leaving dirt to trickle in and hide all their faces even as it left them in a spluttering mess, with a magister somewhere on the other side.

_Will Denarius hurt him, if I’m returned injured?_

She shuddered andpushed forward, careless with elbows. “I hate you all.”

“If we have to spend much longer in here,” Bethany whispered, “I won’t blame you.” Blue light flickered over her skin. “I wish we’d brought Hawke.”

Anders’s laugh skittered ahead of them. “She’d be worse than Fenris. Stabbier, though.”

“I refuted him,” Nox whispered, eyes shut, body still moving. “I am _not his._ ”

There was not enough air.

 

* * *

  ** _1\. Orana_**

There was not enough air. There hadn’t been, Orana thought, since they’d left in the night, weeks ago. Her world had shifted into tunnels and ships. Master Aubericus gave no answers, not even in his silence, and took no tea. He would not even shave! Kept himself prison-ragged and with his household fraying out behind him.

Papa made soup.

The Archon never charged their master. Not formally, papa said. So there still _was_ a household. Soldiers and slaves and a few lesser mages who twitched as Tevinter faded from view.

Papa was glad to see the master. A good one, he said, even as they were all sick off the side of the boat and the magister locked himself away with books and maps.

A good one, and powerful once. He’d freed his own slave. Made a _student_ of him. Orana had been a baby. Magister Fenris was a name to keep her mind off sea swell and the worry in papa’s face. But she’d seen him on his last day. The fire and fury at Funalis. He’d wept. And demons came.

Too many thoughts.

The tunnels went on forever.

* * *

 The tunnels went on forever. Ornate and eerie, mage light marking their way so that they made no smoke. Dirt pressed down, tile pressed up. Nothing won. Orana wanted to cry as they walked. Master Aubericus was _fast_. He shouldn’t be fast. He’d hardly eaten a thing. But now blisters cracked and bled into her footprints and she kept going—kept walking. He had a knife.

“She’ll be led here.” he said to his mages, shaking his head as one of them reached out to snag an arm about Orana’s waist.

(Still. _Still._ It’ll be all right. Is the cave roof getting lower? It might be. Down and down and she did not like the chambers with tables and troughs. Did not like any of this, but the woman’s hand curled over her hip and she—)

“Release her, Livia.” Cold words. Orana did not squeak as was let go, the hand recoiling as if her skin had gone to slime. “The slave will be led here. And we need all the bodies we have.”

Too many thoughts.

Master Aubericus held her father down.

“This will be painless,” he said. “I don’t—”

* * *

 “I don’t... _master._ Master Aubericus, I don’t—”

Castor Aubericus was lenient with slaves and speech. Orana’s father cried out as he died, the mage wincing under the man’s loud, reluctant death even as he felt his gift grow, slick and hot and _enough._ He hoped it was enough.

For his son, it had to be.

Too many thoughts.

The body broke. A demon grew, and Orana ran.

* * *

Orana ran. The mages did not stop her. The master did not notice, which was just as terrifying as her papa on that slab, shouting and nearly dead and then _gone_ with a burning smell and screams. Not hers. Not even his. His body turned to ash and something glowed beneath it. Molten and writhing and full of hate.

 _We need all the bodies we can find_.

Orana’s body moved when she didn’t know if she was properly inside it. She felt like part of her snagged at every turn, trailing behind as smoke. Her body didn’t seem to notice. There were more screams.

More demons.

* * *

  ** _2\. Old nightmares_**

Fenris stopped. He felt Anders trip up against his back, but it was remote. Slow pressure through thick air that filled his ears and throat.

_We break. We tear. Kill us. Be us._

“Love?” Anders. Quck, steady fingers to his pulse and temple, then the nape of his neck.

“Demons,” Fenris said. Nothing happened. His lips barely moved. “Ware. Demons.”

He felt more than saw Justice push his way through Bethany’s skin, thin strands of the Fade reaching down, almost yearning, as if they might snatch the spirit back if they only stretched father. He blinked. The image was absurd. The demons were playing enough havoc with the Fade, splitting and unspooling it as they moved only a room away. Rage and pride and something cold-edged, that he had rarely seen.

 _Despair_.

Anders’s hand closed about his own. If he concentrated only on that—palm meeting palm, itchy with the dirt of this place, but welcome still, he could move. He swallowed.

“A _lot_ of demons.”

“Are they yours?” Sharp words from Nox, who stood on the balls of her feet. Light. Expectant. The muscles in her arms stood out in the light from his own staff.

He scowled. “No.”

A matching sneer. “They might as well be.”

“You know nothing of this.”

“You’re right,” Nox said. “I _do_ know noth—” the words were cut off as Isabela’s hand pressed hard over her mouth.

“Probably not the best time to have this fight, sweet thing,” said the pirate, eyes hard even as her hand gentled. “What with the demons. Lots of them, you said?”

“ ** _They will not stand before me,”_** Justice said, hardly a trace of Bethany in the words.

Nox stepped back, lip curling. Fenris watched as she straightened, imagined she was trying to push her disgust away, to try and find her friend who’d swallowed this corpse. She glared at Isabela. “Do that again,” she said, “And I will bite you.”

Isabela sighed and slipped through them all, fingers brushing Bethany’s cheek as she passed. She winced when electricity flared.

“Bite me _later_ ,” she said. And stepped into the room ahead of them.

* * *

Despair and desire. Pride. Rage and fear all mixed together in as bodies lay broken in the colours of Fenris’s former house. Fenris moved and pulled and demons flared, dissipated. Whispers caught at him— _this girl died in her sleep; this man had a son. These two were lovers._ He saw names and faces and he hurt as they died for the second time.

His sister whirled and hacked. Bethany’s astringent mix of a gift made him wish he could peel off his own skin. Anders stood at the centre of the room, shielding and healing obvious cuts, but distracted by the signs of bloodletting that filled the room even as magic left it.

“This is—I never saw—”

“Neither have I,” Fenris said. He watched Anders run a shaking finger over one dead, contorted face. He tried to close its eyes. “This is—”

“Magic,” Nox spat. “ _This_ is magic.” Her markings glowed. A silver net over her scratched, bruised skin.

“Is…” Bethany coughed. Sweat flew her hair as she shook her head, the scarf at throat dark with it. “Someone’s crying?”

Fenris turned, slow, and saw a pale elf staring at them as her shoulders shook with sobs.

“Are you hurt?” he managed. Sharper than he wanted. “Did they touch you?”

“They—they’ve been killing _everyone,”_ the elf said. “They killed papa. Bled him.”

Fenris swallowed. “Why would he—they—do this?” The words echoed in the bloodied room. He couldn’t keep his eyes on the girl. Looked up, then down. He shifted from foot to foot.

“The magister said he needed power.” Her words were soft. Distant. “He said…that someone was coming to kill him.” She blinked. “But I know you,” she whispered. “M-my lord, I’m sorry. I’m a mess. This is a mess. You’re the magister. The liber-no, I’m sorry. We all tried to be good.” Words pilled up. “We _tried_ to be good. And it _was_ good, he was in prison for so long, then he came home, but—but-but he took us _here_ , and he loved papa’s soup, and I don’t _understand_ …”

Slower, thicker tears. Her voice was clogged with them, and Fenris raised a hand. Tried to tell her stop, but the raised hand made her cringe, wail until she choked it off with a desperate swallow that he felt in in his own throat.

They stared at each other. Helpless. Furious.

“This,” Nox said, slow, rough-edged gentleness that took Fenris back to the atrium of his old home, Varania crouched to Anders’s bruised and frightened eye-level in the heat-drenched space. “Has been terrible for you. Is the magister still here?”

“I-I think so,” the slave whispered. “He was preparing for battle. I think he—I think he’s very frightened.”

Nox’s gentleness cracked. “He has reason to be.”

“Everything was _fine_ before today,” she wailed. Nox and Fenris both flinched.

“What’s your name?” Anders asked.

“Orana,” she said. “Are you—you’re the magister’s aren’t you?” she turned to Fenris again, hands twisting togehter. “Are you my master now?”

Bile rose. And a very small part of Fenris—the terrified part—was laughing.

“N- _no,” he_ managed, strangled.

The world did not change.

* * *

**_3\. His master’s house_ **

Nox’s stomach clenched as Anders gave Orana money, “Go to Kirkwall,” he said. Presumptions. Leaking care and no sense. “To the Hanged Man, or the Amell estate in Hightown. We’ll vouch for you. You can work.”

“And if she gets robbed halfway there?” Nox dragged her free hand through her hair, trying for calm. “We need to move.”

Orana fled. Nox turned half an eye to her brother. “I will see this man who owned so much.”

Fenris’s hands were fists. His lower lip was bloodied.

“Come on,” she said. “Enough of this.”

* * *

**_4\. Shadows and selves_ **

Castor Aubericus stood at the centre of barrier magic. Nox met it face first. The stuff stung, quick-moving, stickiness turning sharp where it would do most damage. It heated metal and burnt skin, and Nox snarled as she was trapped. Isabela, quicker and warier in the moment, threw an experimental dagger. It bounced off, and the rogue hissed when she touched the hilt.

“What is this?”

Fenris. Voice loud, and stronger than Nox expected.

“It’ll be no barrier to _you,_ my boy.” The older magister’s voice was slow. Almost slurred. Nox, still trying to tug free, wondered how much of himself he’d put into the barrier.

(Strong hands at her back. Bethany was bent around her, trying to pull her back, breath hitching as the man’s magic crawled up her arms.

“ _Kill_ him,” she muttered. “What’s the use of being an abomination if you don’t—”

“—you’re more important,” Bethany said. “Now shut up.”)

“You work for _Denarius_ now?” Fenris was pacing, never taking his eyes off the man. _“Vishante keffas.”_

“And worse,” said Castor. “Call me what you like.”

“Are you _possessed?”_

(”He’s not,” Bethany’s hair fell forward, tickling Nox’s face. A welcome distraction from the bite of the trap. “Definitely not.”)

Fenris stepped closer. Nox’s stomach lurched as the barrier flared and began to dim.

“There’s the boy I taught,” Castor murmured. His hands twitched. The barrier brightened again.

“My teacher,” said Fenris, “Did not call demons.”

“Ha. No. That was you.” A flicker of a smile. It took years off his face. “Did you know it took a month to clean them up, after Funalis? The Archon couldn’t lock me up until it was done. I took my time. Fascinating creatures. Is that your _slave_ with you? Truly?”

Anders lifted his chin. He’d kept pace with Fenris, wincing but still able to move. “I have a name.”

“People usually do,” said Castor. “I burnt your blood charm, as promised.”

“Save to kill us?” Anders said. “A bit perverse, isn’t it?”

The magister lashed out, staff moving in an arc. No magic, just the long heft of it, striking the healer on the temple. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” he said. “Not here.”

“You’ve murdered over a dozen slaves.” Fenris said, catching Anders and stumbling under the weight, eyes wide. “They made sad demons, _master._ ” He grit his teeth. The barrier Pulsed. Weakened again.

Nox staggered forward, Bethany’s arms still around her for a few steps, then Bethany was running, the ground shaking as she pushed her own magic toward Castor, face white with the effort.

“Better,” said Castor. “You never met my son, Fenris. Stayed in Seheron most of the years you were in my household, servus or not. A good boy. And Denarius knows where he is.” He groaned, shifting his weight and sending more of the barrier towards Bethany, whose movements slowed even as her skin cracked with enough of Justice that they all had to squint. “Poor form,” Castor said, breathless. “To kill a magister, as you know. But kill his descendants…or his siblings? Well.”

Nox’s laugh caught them all off guard. She wheezed. Blood dripped from one ear.

“Terrifying,” Castor breathed. “Denarius made something terrifying.”

“Shut up,” said Nox.

She ran hard at the magister’s unguarded side.

Fenris jerked back. Isabela cheered.

Castor Aubericus’s pulse was rapid under her gauntleted hand, eyes tracking her face even as they teared up from a broken nose, from the renewed force magic that was probably crushing his ribs into paste. Nox sobbed as her markings pulsed and seemed to split. There was lyrium in her mouth. She tried to turn it outward again, into heat that would leave the man a desiccated waste, but there was too much, and he was _pulling_ at it. His magic gripped her even as his true fingers broke.

 

* * *

> _Nox was in slave tunnels. She’d always been in slave tunnels. She knelt at her master’s feet as he pulled more and more lyrium from her, coating and thickening his own magic until he glowed._
> 
> _“See, little fox?” Denarius smiled at her. Cupped her cheek. She was sick. Dizzy. “See what you do for a mage, if he knows what to take?”_  

* * *

 Nox was in slave tunnels, sprawled on top of a magister. She twitched.

“Kill me, boy.” Castor said. “Make it quick or as slow as you want. But I _will_ kill her first.”

Fenris glowered. “My sister is—”

“— _that?_ Your sister is dead, Fenris. That’s his creature. And he’ll do anything for her. If she’s dead, he cannot win. Don’t you want him to pay?” A laugh for that, mocking and small as he blew some of Nox's hair from his mouth. "Oh,  _listen_ to me. Months as a captive audience to Denarius's fucking monologues has done nothing good, I fear. He really went all out. Spiders. Threats. Long, confiding conversations about iron spikes. I don't know myself!" 

“You," Fenris said, "Are a poor simulacrum of someone I used to respect.”

“He has my _son.”_

Fenris opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a long, bubbling gasp.  

Nox’s forearm pressed into Castor's  throat.

Nox tried to press harder. She tried to crush his windpipe with muscle and armor and simple pressure, but he was still taking from her, so much now that her skin felt like it was freshly gouged, in the dark, the master’s lips against her ear and—

—And Bethany Hawke punched magister Castor Aubericus in the face.

 

* * *

  ** _5\. Choices made_  **

As soon as Da taught Marian how to make a fist, she had gone Carver and Bethany and given them the longest day of their four-year-old lives trying to pass the knowledge on. It hadn’t stuck.

She’d had better luck, Bethany remembered, when they were seven.

Now, her skin split against the magister’s teeth. He stopped glowing. Blood dripped from her knuckles. And she stared in awe as Fenris pulled at the Fade in a way she could not see—not _quite_ , even with Justice’s help—but which turned the other man an unsettling shade of grey.

“Killing you feels too much like putting you out of your misery,” he said. His hands shook. His voice did not.

“It’s not,” Nox gasped. “ _Your_ fucking choice.”

Bethany remembered the pain she saw on Castor’s face. Remembered Nox’s hands on her, and the feeling of her heart about to explode in a gory, heated mess. Remembered the taste of smoke in a rapidly closing throat. The blisters that felt a second away from her lips and tongue.And that had been only a light touch. Something to push Justice deeper down.

Nox’s grip on the magister was strong. The blisters grew, then burst. Blood rose to his skin before it boiled away.When she pushed off him, standing on wobbly legs, he was little more than bones.

Fenris was mute. Anders, still groggy, looked between his lover and the body with unfocused eyes, Isabela supporting his weight.

Bethany watched, heart in mouth, as Nox faced her brother.

“No one,” she said. “Is going to pay _anything_ with me.”

She stared at Fenris’s hand as he gripped her upper arm.

“You hesitated,” she said, voice almost small. “You were going to let him live.”

“He hurt you,” Fenris said. “And so he was already dead.” A pause. A muscle twitched in Fenris’s jaw. “ _You_ are not.”

Nox flinched. “Liar. You’re not—I’m not—” she shook her head. “I’m not _yours_ ,” she said. “Not Denarius’s, not yours.” She laughed, shrugging out of Fenris’s light hold and turning wet, dark eyes on Bethany.

“I no more fit in this body than the spirit fits in hers,” Nox said. “I _inhabit_. Magically.” She turned her back on them all, hands pressed to the tunnel wall as if she was trying to find a new door. “And what does magic touch that it does not spoil?”

“ _Nox_ —” Anders, appalled.

Bethany could not move. Barely breathed.

“I…” Nox shook her head. “I need to go.”


	40. amata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nox finds her way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's been a long time coming. Thank you for sticking around. <3

1.  _Dominae_

Nox knew tunnels. She had woken in them, lit by the horror beneath her own skin. She’d woken with hands on her and Denarius’s voice.

“You are _quite_ the investment,” he said. Not to her. In the first days, Nox remembered, there had been another master. Blue-eyed and hateful. A woman who had fed her words when Nox had screamed them all away.

(”She’s really gone.”

“Of course, Hadriana. Don’t be sentimental.)

An investment, he’d told her, his hand in her hair as he tilted her chin back, examined how the markings stood out at her throat.

Hadriana disappeared. The tunnels kept going.

She’d been shown in Qarinus and hidden away in Teraevyn. She’d stood in front of a Qunari squadron and stens fell, cursing her in the their language of compounds and sharp images that still fit in her mouth better than Trade, for all she’d learnt it later. Qunlat followed them through Par Vollen, as the magister slipped in amongst the Imperium’s spies and whispered about her until she was shadow-monstrous, barely real, and the tunnels swallowed her once more.

Now, Nox stumbled out into Darktown, eyes closed against trash fires and tallow. The clinic was three turns and a broken set of stairs away. The lantern was unlit.

 _Home_ , she thought.

 _Run,_ she thought.

A throat in her hands. A throat, then a knife; slipping from sweat but sharp enough that she killed before her mouth knew how words worked, Denarius watching— _dominus, dominus—_ while her brother lay in a tumbled heap next to the new body she made.

Throat. Knife. Sword. Heavy and huge, the grip worn to her hands in a way that showed years she did not remember.

Throat. Knife. Sword. Wood. Splintered and poor, pricks of blood rising up under her nails as she looked in Bethany’s wall and she tried to see where new pieces might fit. She sawed and shaped and forced, salvaging beams from the derelict warehouses Hawke usually left in her wake. She’d hefted and measured and swore at every gap, shirt sweat stuck and sword propped by Bethany’s medicine shelves.

(”It doesn’t need to be perfect,” Bethany told her. “And be _careful_. You’ll hurt your leg again.”

“I disrupted your home,” Nox had said. “I won’t leave it worse for my presence.”)

Careful. Bethany’s hands on her leg, checking the old wound for new poison. Care in tea and stories and the patched sheets on the bed.

Throat. Knife. Sword. Wood. A hammer. A chipped cup, the glaze dark green and still mostly smooth. A small purchase at a dockside market; Bethany, pale from too many Darktown days, blinking as sunlight splashed jaggedly off the water and Isabela’s laughter warmed them both.

Careless. Care. A strong brown arm slung about Nox’s shoulders, Isabela’s fingers making sure to dance only over unmarked skin even as she teased Nox about _glistening._

(”You can make my blood race any time, sweet thing. Give it a try?”)

Throat. Knife. Sword. Wood and hammer. Chipped clay and Isabela’s arms. Hands.

Bethany Hawke’s hands. Long and slim and with dirt at the nails, the grooves of her knuckles slightly swollen in the cold. There were three freckles on the back of the left that matched part of a Tevinter star. Bethany Hawke’s hands. Tight on hers and under hers, their fingers easy and entwined even when Nox couldn’t breathe and never knew where to look.

Nox slumped against the wall she had made.

 _Home_ , she thought.

 _Run,_ she thought.

_Wait._

* * *

 

_2\. Amata_

When Bethany came to the clinic, she did not expect the other woman to speak first.

“I’ve been thinking,” Nox said, voice rough. “About what happened with the magister. I took my anger out on you. Undeservedly so.” She bit her lip. Stared at her hands. When she raised her head again, the silence was almost at the screaming point of awkward.

“You,” Bethany managed. “You weren’t yourself.”

Nox snorted. “That is precisely _what_ I was, my friend. I am—”

“—you are not going to collapse in self-pity now,” Bethany snapped. “Not over what you said to me. You’ve said it before, clear enough.”

“And I was _wrong._ ”

They stared at each other. Bethany reached out. Braced a hand against the wall.

“I am sick of hate,” Nox said. She spoke to the ground, each word distinct, growing louder and stronger with each half breath.

 _Look up_ , Bethany thought. _Look at me._

“I am sick of fear and hate and _smallness_ , and all of that is in me. Denarius took whatever I was before and carved what he liked out of it. My brother wasted power he should have used to burn the magisterium to the fucking ground chasing after a woman who does not exist, while people like that _magister_ use me as much as Denarius ever did, because even when dead I am _useful._ So I killed him. And that was useless for _me_ , but Denarius shall use it all the same. He’ll find out. Follow. Hurt this place and everyone in it in ways that your sister can’t fight.” She spat. “He will hurt her, and anyone who fights with her. Isabela. Varric. That foolish elf. Aveline. All of them. He will hurt Anders to wound, Fenris and Fenris to hurt Anders, twisting each up into the other until _they_ are small, all while I watch.”

“Nox…”

“I will watch because he will make me watch, and he has made me. He shall see _you_ and want to peel off your skin to get to that spirit, who will rage and push through until it wears you once more, and you will both die.” She looked up, eyes bleak. Drew a shaking breath. “And he will make me hurt you, and I shall, because if I do not then he will see how much I care for you and it will worse.”

“ ** _Nox_**.” Bethany cupped Nox’s jaw, hating how her thumb trembled as she brushed at the elf’s lower lip. She wanted to push all those words back into Nox’s mouth. Wanted to weep and hit things.

“I am not frightened of you,” Nox whispered.

“Where did you go?” Bethany asked, not pulling away. “No one knew where you went. Everyone was worried.”

A small shrug, and Bethany did let her hand fall, gut twisting.

“Here,” Nox said. “I needed to be alone, but this place is—” she swallowed. Bethany imagined the word that might have filled the empty space.

“Tell me to go,” Nox said. “Please.”

At that, Bethany laughed. Soft and disbelieving. She felt alone. Body light and empty of anything except her racing heartbeat. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered. “Don’t you _dare_.”

Nox kissed her. Fierce and too fast. There were tears in it that mixed with blood as her teeth caught on Bethany’s lower lip. The angle was wrong, and tears spring to Bethany’s eyes as a gauntleted hand tangled in her hair, but Nox’s mouth was hot. They slanted and shifted. Bethany’s hands caught at Nox’s waist and shoulder, fingers gripping. She gasped, and felt Nox rise on her toes. Swallowed the other woman’s groan.

When they pulled apart, Nox stared at her, colour high in her cheeks. She reached out, hand shaking as she let her fingertips graze the small hurt on Bethany’s lip. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I—”

She cried out as Bethany nipped hard at her lower lip.

“There, love,” Bethany said, delighted by the smile she heard in her own voice. The private, uncoiling warmth. “Now we match.”

 


	41. morning shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old memories intrude on Nox even as new ones are built.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first section of this chapter is reasonably explicit, and skippable if you'd prefer.

**_1\. Lyrium ghost_ **

_Amata._

They were tangled on the bed and Bethany’s hair was _everywhere._ Across the pillow.In their mouths. Nox didn’t care. She brushed it away whenever she needed to. Dragged her lips slowly over Bethany’s skin. She kissed her chin. The corner of her mouth. Her cheeks and forehead. When her friend reached up, hand cupping Nox’s cheek, she kissed Bethany’s fingertips. Whimpered as Bethany slipped her other hand up beneath Nox’s shirt.

Armor lay in scattered pieces near the door. Nox’s arms and the backs of her hands were still crisscrossed with lines from the gauntlets, the red crossing over the raised of markings did not hurt as one of Bethany’s legs pressed up between her own.

Nox tugged the bright scarf from her lover’s throat.

_Amata._

_I know this_ , Nox thought. Want and joy and awed laughter as Bethany squirmed beneath her, broad-hipped and warm, a blush moving fast down to breasts that were heavy in Nox’s hands. _I know this_. Heartbeat thudding through skin, each sharing the other’s as Nox swallowed and sucked. Salt in her mouth. Silvery markings showing on across Bethany’s belly and thighs as she flushed deeper and Nox licked sweat away, curious and delighted by the gleam. The changes in tension as she moved.

 _I know this_. Hands on her shoulders. Small sounds. _More_ and _here_ and _let me, let me, **let me** _ as Bethany drew her deep. Nox had a hand splayed on her belly, pressing down as the fingers of her other hand pressed up, deep in her cunt, caught and slick. Nox wanted to watch, but that would mean lifting her head, and she was pressing words to the inside of Bethany’s thigh. Lose the scent and the swell of her, the change as she licked out and up. The small gasps and tugs that said: _I am with you_ , and _not so fast_ and _more pressure, please, I don’t, I need—_

_—Let me. Let me. Let me._

Nox whimpered into Bethany’s skin. Her tongue ached. She was hot and open, raw against sheets. She felt every crease, wondered at herself when the hand resting on Bethany’s stomach slipped down and she was slipping against her own palm, pressing down hard as she she could while she coaxed Bethany with the fingers still inside her, laughter ragged and Bethany’s eyes wide and she felt herself split and spill.

 _I do not know this_ , she thought. _I do not_ know _this._

“Beautiful,” Bethany whispered. She was sitting up and smiling down, blush deepening as she took Nox’s hand—sticky with both of them, the skin too tight—and licked up from the palm. Her tongue slipped between fingers. Careful. Neat.

_I don’t—_

“I adore you, you know,” Bethany said.

—Nox was panting. Dizzy. She didn’t know her own hands, imagining the markings flaring and vanishing into her skin, the hair stuck to her face shifting through into red as if it bled. Bethany’s smile was sweet, but her eyes moved from brown to blue—human blue, not the spirit’s. Blue eyes and blacker, sleeker hair. A full mouth closing over her fingertips.

_(Do you want me to fuck you, Varania?)_

“Nox? Are you with me?”

Nox shuddered, and Bethany was herself again, smile crooked, breath shallow.

Nox pulled away, but that wouldn’t do. The dazed, warm, happy look cracked in Bethany’s eyes and that made Nox’s throat close up. Made something cold tug at her ribs and run up her back.

 _I do not know this,_ she thought. She moved. Straddled her again. If she found the right spot—if Bethany lost herself again and stopped looking, just for a minute, she could breathe.

“Love?”

Hands on her face. Nox leaned into them. Kissed a palm. Smiled into it. Ran gentle fingers through Bethany’s tangled hair and laughed, relief bright and sharp as Bethany’s hips shifted restlessly on the bed. “Let me, amata.” Full words were hard, her voice hoarse. “Let me. _Let me.”_

* * *

 

_**2\. Daybreak** _

Bethany woke sore and smiling, spirit quiet on the inside of her skin as the lyrium in Nox’s markings eased it into something almost like sleep. She wondered at it. At her own nakedness. The pull of stretched muscles and bruised sweetness that flared at her throat. Her shouder. Her thigh.

_Oh._

“Nox,” she whispered, half laugh. “That was—”

She was alone in the bed.

She turned, pulling the sheet up; she had to wince at the scrape over her breasts.

Nox stood by the closed door, her back to the bed. She was buckling on a gauntlet. Bethany’s own clothes, she saw, had been neatly folded.

She swallowed. Tried for a smile. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

Nox’s shoulders stiffened. “Fine,” she said. “It was…fine.”

Ice down her back. Bethany knew her hands were twisting the sheet. Hated it. She tried to look away, but caught the sudden twist of Nox’s mouth, the flush that ran up her neck.

“I’m sorry,” Nox said. “Fine is—” she grimaced, shaking her head, but when she looked up again, her eyes were soft, a small smile flickering at the corner of her mouth. “ _Fine_ is insufficient,” she said. “It’s a new memory. One of the best I have.”

“Well,” Bethany managed, eyes smarting as she saw the small twist of red and gold wrapped around Nox’s left arm. “There can be more of those, at least. All sorts.” She blushed. “You barely gave me the chance to touch you, you know, and I—Nox?”

Al the teasing warmth left her at the look on the other woman’s face.

“You are _wonderful_ ,” she said, low.

“Your markings,” Bethany said. “They can hurt. Did this—did I—?”

“—I remembered. Kept remembering,” Nox whispered, staring at the backs of her hands. “Snatches from my life before. And when I slept it—it’s gone. All of it.”

Bethany was not sure what to do. She stood, the sheet still wrapped tight, but her body hardly registering as she wondered if she should step closer or pull away. “That’s good, isn’t it?” she asked, cautious.

“I don’t know what it is!”

Loud. The words were too loud. Nox startled as she said them, stepping back against the wall, eyes darting from Bethany’s face to the floor, then her own hands again. They were familiar movements, and they stuck sharp. Jerky, rapid things that Bethany remembered from their first weeks together.

“I don’t know what is is,” she said again, softer. “And they’re gone. All of it, gone again, and I don’t—I can’t—you made me _happy._ ”

She was breathing hard. One hand fisted and she pressed it against her chest, leather creaking. “I can’t do this.”

Bethany’s body came back. Sick and shaky. “Don’t say that,” she said. “Please? You _can._ ” A small laugh, cracking around a sob. “This is your home. That’s not going to change.”

 _Even if you don’t want me._ The words stuck, selfish and and small, and she swallowed them deeper down.

“I’m sorry,” Nox said, and it was almost a wail.

She picked up her sword, slung it across her back, and left.

* * *

Nox threw up in an empty tunnel. It splashed her boots. Her eyes swam, the tiny, swirling patterns in Bethany’s scarf blurring into nothing as she pushed hair out of her mouth and sobbed.

* * *

**_3\. Strange help_ **

Anders woke to knocking, and Fenris’s arm hitting him in the face as he reached for a pillow to cover his head.

“Ouch,” he groused, the pounding at their door growing louder and more insistent. “I suppose this means _I’m_ getting it, then?”

“ _Vishante kaffas_.”

“Right.” Anders sighed, and dropped a kiss to Fenris’s shoulder. “But I’ll get you back later.”

Grinning lopsidedly, he pulled himself out of bed, shaking hair out of his eyes.

“Hawke,” he called, “Next time, please just break in through the window?”

He braced himself for invective, squinting at the windows above the door. Aveline was tall enough that she’d show through the glass, and early morning door torture was more her sort of thing than anyone else they knew in the city.

The knocking faltered as he turned the handle.

Nox stood on the front step, hand raised. “I—”

She blinked bloodshot eyes at him. “You,” she said, “Love fish. We hated it, which I think is why you cooked it all the time. We didn’t have a cook. I tried to get Fenris to hire one, but no one would…” she shook her head. “And you fed cats.”

Her face twisted. “Why did I say that?” Nox demanded, voice clogged. She reached out. Gripped his hand almost hard enough to hurt, the old slave scar standing out as the skin pulled taut. Her lips peeled back. “I don’t _know_ that, Anders. Any of it. I—”

“Nox?”

Fenris’s voice. Anders hadn’t heard him come down the stairs from the bedroom, but stepped back to let Nox in and Fenris ease past.

“Varania,” Nox whispered, taking one small step into the hallway, “Had red hair.”

Anders watched, heart in his mouth, as Fenris reached out a shaking hand and let it rest on Nox’s head, tucking some of the coarse, white weight of it behind her ear.

“Yours suits you very well,” Fenris said.

Nox laughed. A small, hurt sound deep in her throat, and let her forehead rest against his.

"I think," she said, "I've done a terrible thing." 

**Author's Note:**

> The structure of this AU is from the lj_kinkmeme. The (glorious, mad) prompt requested, among other things: magister!Fenris--who began life as a slave, but not to Denarius--and slave!Anders, who is neither possessed by Justice nor a Warden. 
> 
> This story is going to contain all of that, along with lyrium; kittens; a headlong flight to Kirkwall; Justice where you least expect him and, I hope to all that is holy, a reasonable attempt at keeping things in character. Wish me luck!


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